


Rise of the Maleficarum

by Amailia



Series: Maleficarum [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Adventure, Blood Magic, Drama, F/M, Humor, Kirkwall, Mages, Magic, Minor Anders/Hawke, Romance, Slow Burn, Templars, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 43,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5832964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amailia/pseuds/Amailia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place between Acts II and III of Dragon Age II. Book II of a series.</p><p>Three months have passed since Hawke and her companions defeated the Belhim'irsa and discovered the involvement of dozens more maleficarum spread all over Thedas. After some preparation, the crew heads out into the world to uncover the truth behind the cult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Anders struck his staff at Hawke’s kneecaps. She barely managed to step back in time, the end of his weapon only able to scratch across the very tops of her leather greaves. Knowing she was about to lose her balance anyway, Hawke rolled out of the clumsy maneuver and away from the lethally swift mage as he spun through his attack, continuing to swing the staff in a wide arc in an attempt to catch her again.

She raised her greatsword to meet it, just narrowly so, before it was able to connect with her temple, which was already bleeding into her eyes. The staff shattered on impact, shards of splintered wood exploding impressively outward. Hawke flinched away from the unexpected debris, then used the gained momentum to spin into a quick retreat as Anders furiously tossed the remaining useless chunk of wood to the ground.

He glared at her menacingly as she retreated toward the wall of the cave, knowing she was putting herself in a tactically terrible position. She wasn’t sure what choice she had – he’d been relentless in his pursuit. She had the advantage now, briefly, with remnants of his weapon littering the ground of the cave behind him. She wondered how accurate that was, however, as he stalked toward her seemingly unaffected by the loss.

He thrust his hand outward and a vicious-looking orb of purple light shot forward toward her. It moved too quickly for her to dodge it, though she managed to turn herself in time to catch it in her shoulder instead of fully in the chest. It had surprising impact and startled Hawke as it sent her flying backward the remaining couple meters to the cave wall.

Her arms splayed outward as she turned in an attempt to take the coming impact against her flank instead of her spine. She wasn’t fast enough however, and before she even met the wall Anders had shot another orb toward her. This one was blue and white and freezing cold, and it quickly pinned her left arm to the cave wall in a casing of ice.

Hawke cursed at the prone position it put her in, and quickly dropped her sword, pulling at the ties that held her leather gauntlet in place. She was able to slide her wrist out of the armor, leaving it stranded in the ice, but before she could manage to roll away and grab her sword again, Anders had fired another orb, catching her other arm and freezing it against the wall in a similar fashion to the first.

By now he had closed the distance between them, and Hawke was surprised as he brazenly approached her, bracing his left hand on her shoulder and punching her firmly in the stomach. Her breath left her completely, half from disbelief and half from the brutal impact, and her body attempted to recoil inward with the pain of the attack. The compulsory thrust forced her wrist away from the cavern wall, breaking the ice that held it in place and dropping Hawke to the ground. She landed on her knees, falling forward onto one palm while holding her injured side with her other arm.

She reached again for air that wasn’t hers to have, causing her head to spin and vision to falter. She could only watch from the corner of her eye as Anders gracefully stepped away from her, then spun on a heel, delivering a vicious kick to her rib cage. She felt the bones break as the impact knocked her into the wall, further removing her ability to bring air into her lungs. Her sight began to spin upwards and away from her. She fought to keep it, though she wasn’t sure why, as all she saw was Anders stalking again toward her, ready to deliver another brutal blow.

“Anders! That’s enough!” Aveline’s irate voice rang through the cave. Given a mere second of reprieve, breath finally found Hawke and she gasped for it voraciously, the rapid intake causing her head to spin even more. She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling very nauseous, and remained on her side while she grasped her stomach with both arms in an attempt to calm it. She heard the sound of many feet pawing at the floor of the cave, then a vicious inhuman growl. Through her still upset vision she was able to see her Mabari hound, Legion, as he placed himself between her and the still sweltering mage.

“It’s ok boy,” Hawke managed in a meek, breathless voice. Legion gave Anders a long glare before he turned and padded lightly toward her, his ears flattening pathetically as he approached his prone master.

“It’s not ok, Hawke,” Aveline continued in that tone of hers that was at once authoritative, inspiring, and frightening, “This is supposed to be training, not just beating each other senseless.”

Hawke attempted to speak up, but her body rejected the idea and she instead focused fully on not upheaving the contents of her stomach onto the cave floor. Anders appeared to be coming down from his fury, but when he turned and spoke to the guard captain his voice didn’t reflect it.

“If you think these mages are just going to hide behind things and cast spells, you’re sorely mistaken. There are plenty who have been trained martially, Hawke has to be prepared for a physical fight, you said it yourself,” Anders argued.

“That doesn’t need to involve broken bones! Take it easy, this is about tactics and preparedness, not about kicking her while she’s down… literally,” Aveline retorted defensively, finishing her descent into the cave and stopping by a table near the entrance. They’d commandeered one of the cave systems they’d found while hunting flocks of the Prophet Malefica and turned it into a kind of training center. Some rough terrain, rocky outcroppings, and a small network of narrow passages connecting to the main cavern made for ample opportunities for strategizing. The main space was large enough for a good-sized sparring ring surrounded by makeshift targets, as well as a lounge area with a large table and mismatch of chairs appropriated from various sources around Kirkwall.

Their upcoming hunt for the mages involved in the creation of the ‘One of Many’, or _Belhim’irsa_ in the original elvish tongue, had Hawke looking to improve her skills against those who wielded magic. Though she’d been trained and tested quite thoroughly in martial settings, she often relied on her companions to help control and take down magic users, and the vote was still out as to who all would be joining her. Fenris, Merrill and Varric had readily accepted, but she still hoped to convince them all. She knew it was a lot to ask, as the journey would likely take several months.

Beginning to recover from the loss of oxygen, Hawke felt she might be able to rise, however the broken ribs begged to differ, and shot vicious stabs of pain through her chest. She decided to stop struggling, and resigned to lying prone on the floor while speaking to her friends.

“He’s right Aveline. And it’s my fault, I was too focused on the magic, I wasn’t thinking about it turning physical,” she managed breathily, then winced as the breath she took to recover sent more punishing lashes of pain through her torso. She heard Aveline sigh in resignation, then felt Anders slip his arms under her waist and neck to scoop her up. His hard, determined glare was turning softer as he carried Hawke away from the sparring ring and laid her onto the table across from the guard captain.

“I get it,” Hawke smiled at him, “You’re sick of healing sprained ankles and communicable diseases, you just wanted some good old-fashioned broken bones and flesh wounds.” Anders didn’t seem to find this funny as he began to delicately unbuckle and remove her leather cuirass. Though she generally preferred her plate armor, Hawke had thought it best to become comfortable with something lighter that allowed for more agility, since the plate would provide her no assistance against most magical attacks. She was questioning this line of thought though, now that Anders had managed to fell her so easily by mostly just beating her with his quarterstaff.

He had been ruthless with her of late, for reasons that weren’t clear to Hawke, but she hoped it was because he wanted her to be as prepared as possible. He knew she wouldn’t resent him for that, even if her companions did. She hoped it _wasn’t_ because he was angry with her decision to pursue those responsible for creating the Belhim’irsa, what he had more than once referred to as their ‘mage-crusade’. He was probably right, but she couldn’t let it go. She knew as soon as she looked at that map and saw the locations of those apostates, or whoever they were that somehow shared the blood of that demon, that she absolutely would have to see it through to its end.

She knew it was dangerous and would be supremely difficult and time-consuming, and very likely result in her death, but she couldn’t get over the thought that those responsible for that creature were skulking around Thedas. It kept her awake at night, and when sleep was able to find her, it plagued her dreams, maleficarum going from door to door in Kirkwall, finding and murdering each and every one of the people she loved.

Anders began work on her broken bones, numbing their pain a bit and allowing her senses to be assaulted with reminders of the other injuries she’d incurred. The gash on her temple bled out onto the table, and she grimaced in disgust. Recently the piece of furniture acted far more often as a convenient place to heal injuries than somewhere one might gather with friends for a laugh over a pint of ale.

Though they had been diligent about training, they hadn’t otherwise spent much time together of late, and she wondered why that was, as she frowned apologetically at Aveline through the haze in her eyes. The guard captain sighed, pulling out a chair and sitting down heavily in her full plate armor, likely having just come off patrol with Legion, who had found a spot under the table to whimper dolefully.

“Maybe you should think about taking some time away from training, just for a while,” Aveline said, amending her more earnest sentiment with the caveat in an effort to make it seem a more realistic suggestion to Hawke’s ears.

“Every second we spend preparing counts. If we stop training – it needs to be because we’re ready,” Hawke insisted.

“Ready for what? To travel, to leave? That won’t prepare you for what’s to come. No amount of self-torture will make you more prepared to leap into the unknown.”

“I’m not torturing myself, Av. What if those marks on the map _are_ the creators and they try again, make another Belhim’irsa somewhere else? And it all started here in Kirkwall, and we didn’t stop it?”

“Merrill checks every week. There has been no chance in the number of markings and they never converge, and it’s been months,” Aveline argued. She leaned back in her chair, already looking defeated. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this same conversation, and Aveline already knew how it was going to end.

Hawke was frustrated that they didn’t know more about what they were walking into. They once thought it likely that the participants were consumed in the process of creating the beast, but this appeared to dispatch that line of thought, as the only reason they would show on the magical ancient Elven map was if their blood had been part of the same concoction. 

Hawke was rudely wrenched from her thoughts as Anders pressed hard on her tender rib cage in an attempt to set the bones. She groaned in pain and Aveline winced.

“Maker’s breath Anders, be careful,” Aveline said, concern creasing her forehead.

“Aveline’s right, Hawke, it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to heal your injuries,” Anders said, not looking up from his work, “When you haven’t fully recovered from the previous ones first, I mean.” The two women glared at him accusatorially and he looked up to meet their gaze as if in response to the heat of it. He looked almost sheepish for a moment, and Hawke felt a surge of nostalgia for the more humorous temperament of her old friend. But as fast as it came, it was gone again, replaced by the hardened, serious look that all but constantly plagued the mage’s face these days.

Hawke was so caught up with the searing pain, she managed to overlook the fact that her companions had just outvoted her. Aveline stood up, her chair sliding back loudly against the hard stone floor.

“That settles it then, Hawke, doctor’s orders,” Aveline stated resolutely.

“What just happened?” Hawke gaped as Anders leant some much-needed support to help her sit up. She was surprised at the amount of pain she still felt, Anders’s treatments often left her feeling even more rejuvenated than before the injury. Maybe they were right, maybe her body did need time to heal on its own.

“I’ll take her home,” Aveline offered, crossing to the other side of the table and taking Hawke’s arm over her shoulder, “You should get some rest as well, Anders, you look like death.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly, wiping a few beads of sweat off his brow. Hawke hadn’t noticed until now, but he really did look spent. Maybe she had been pushing too hard. It was easy for her to get caught up in the pursuit, to forget that people had limits, that she herself had limits.

She winced as Aveline helped her down off the table and started to hobble toward the exit, cursing under her breath as she realized that it was going to be a very long, painful walk back to Hightown.


	2. Chapter 2

“Maybe he’s trying to injure you so badly you won’t be able to leave,” Fenris said as he removed the bundle of mostly melted ice from Hawke’s side and replaced it with a fresh pack. Hawke recoiled slightly from the shock of cold, then looked up at him as if trying to gauge whether he was being sarcastic.

“I’d like to say that would surprise me, but with the way he’s been acting lately, I wouldn’t take it off the list of possibilities,” she said, wincing as she rolled from her side and onto her back. Fenris’s expression tightened with concern, and he sat on the edge of the bed to adjust the various feather pillows that were supporting her.

“Could he really not have done more for you?” he growled, his sympathy for her pain quickly turning into anger at the mage.

“It’s not him, I’ve had too many injuries in a short span of time,” she said, he thought just a touch too defensively.

“Injuries _he_ caused you,” he grumbled. She took his hand in both of hers, caressing the back of it lightly in an attempt to defuse him.

”He can use more of me to help, but he’s worried it will exhaust me too much. It’s best to let my body heal on its own this time around.”

“Magic always has a cost,” he resigned, tucking a wisp of her hair gently behind her ear with his free hand. Loose hair fell all around her face and shoulders, the braid she had it tied in had suffered an unfortunate demise. Fenris loosened the tie that held it and attempted to smooth the locks comfortingly as her eyes began to droop, then quickly shut as she succumbed to exhaustion. He couldn’t be too upset with man, he had used his unrivaled healing ability to save the lives of both Hawke and himself in the recent past. Saving Hawke, he understood, but he had never expected the mage to risk his own life to save Fenris’s. He knew he owed him at least a modicum of respect for that.

He watched as Hawke’s long fingers slowed their absentminded caress as she fell deeper into slumber. He recalled a time not long before when even a light touch on his lyrium-imbued tattoos would have caused him a great deal of discomfort or even pain. He had learned a lot about himself over the last half year, that he was able to love, for one. Perhaps more importantly, he had found he was able to trust others. He had discovered a pleasant inverse relationship between the level of pain his markings brought him and the degree to which he trusted the instigator. It would be just like the Maker to come up with such a diabolical reward system.

That was another thing he’d discovered that he would have never thought possible. Despite how much time he continued to spend with Sebastian or at the Chantry, he wouldn’t call himself a true believer. However he had been able to find aspects of the faith that worked for him, things that helped him cope and let go of grievances that had held him back for a long time. If he believed in one thing, it was that opening himself up to the possibility of a higher power was what had allowed he and Hawke to finally be together. Not because she required it of him, though she was Andrastian, faith had never been a major part of her life, but because it had allowed him to transform, let go of his past just enough to become what she needed.

“Copper for your thoughts?” Hawke asked suddenly and he returned his gaze to her. She was looking up at him though slitted eyes, sagging with weariness, her cheeks flush and an endearing lopsided smile pulling at her lips.

“Just getting lost in them,” he said warmly. Fenris took a breath as if about to say something, but stopped himself. He'd been looking for a way to broach the subject of Anders with her for weeks. He'd aborted the discussion many times, as he found it difficult to incite her when her affections toward him seemed to grow with every passing day.

But, the longer it went on, the more he wondered if she hadn't even realized what was happening. Fenris had seen her fight Anders, and it was a pale representation of her abilities, like someone had possessed her body, retained her muscle memory but siphoned her spirit.He noticed Hawke studying his despondent look with concern, and he realized she probably thought he was angry with Anders for hurting her. She wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t quite that simple.

“Whatever it is, you can just say it,” Hawke was trying to sound reassuring, but the anxiety was obvious in her tone.

“Anders is strong,” he said carefully, “But he can’t take you in a physical fight, it’s ridiculous, actually. I’m pretty sure you could beat me up one-handed, and I once injured Anders with a high-five.”

Hawke just looked at him expectantly – she did not seem to know what he was trying to get at.

“So, what’s going on?” he continued, trying his hardest to not sound interrogative.

“You think I’m doing something on purpose?” she replied, at once defensive and innocent, “That I’m letting Anders beat me up?”

“No - I’m not trying to accuse you. I’m just wondering if this is more of a mental issue than a physical one.”

Before he even finished his sentence, Hawke opened her mouth as if about to refute the statement. She stopped though, and the creases of concern on her face loosened, replaced by a blank look of thought.

“I mean, you bested a Qunari in single combat. Remember that?” Fenris said, as if his point hadn’t already been made.

“ _Bested_ is being pretty generous. More like somehow didn’t die first,” she said, shaking her head, “I know what I’m capable of Fenris, I know how to take a life – it’s just different when you’re sparring a friend.”

“That’s an excuse, and you know it.”

“An excuse how?” she asked sincerely.

“You don’t hold back against me, for instance. Yes, I beat you sometimes, but you’re steadfast. You always get right back up and push just as hard as ever the next time.”

“What does that prove?”

Fenris sighed, searching for another angle to approach from, “Okay… Sebastian tried this with me once, hear me out?”

“Sure, anything.”

“I ask a question, you answer as quickly as you can, with the first thing that crosses your mind. No pause for thought, just instinct.”

“I can do instinct,” she said, seeming relieved that this method required her to not think.

“Where were you born?” he started.

“Lothering.”

“When did you move to Kirkwall?”

“Five, almost six years ago.”

“Where did you live then?”

“Lowtown, with my uncle.”

“What’s your favorite thing about Varric?”

“Bianca.”

“What’s your least favorite thing about Varric?”

“That he won’t tell me who Bianca is.”

“How was your relationship with your sister?”

“In trying to protect her, I also kept her at a distance.”

“Do you regret that?”

“Of course.”

“What worries you the most?”

“That more of the people I love will die.”

“Why are you holding back against Anders?”

“I can’t hurt him more,” she answered, clearly startled by her own words. Fenris was surprised at how painful it was to hear her say it out loud, though he had known it would be something to that effect. There was a long pause as she seemed to search for what to say next.

Hawke had never been privy to the knowledge that a large part of the rivalry between Anders and himself had been her. But as quickly their love for her had put them at odds, it was also what had allowed them to bond, because neither wanted to see her hurt, at any cost. Hawke didn’t know this, thinking the grievance between them was that Fenris hated mages and Anders hated those who hated mages, and that it was as simple as that. He didn't know what Hawke knew about Anders affections for her, but judging by her answer, she must have at least had an inkling.

“I… had my suspicions that he had feelings for me. He seemed really hurt after you and I got together,” she said, doubtlessly thinking Fenris had no idea, then added quickly, “But we haven’t discussed it at all.”

"I think therein lies the problem, love. It might be time to have a chat with him about it.”

She nodded, as if considering the advice, then looked up in confusion.

“You’re acting very causal about this,” she said suspiciously.

"We've discussed it, not in detail mind you-"

"Sorry," she cut him off with a surprised, though not angry look, "You've _discussed_ it? Discussed ‘ _it_ ’?“

"What do you think Anders and I talk about when we're together?"

"I don't know…” she said, incredulous now, “I imagine it as a light but poignant commentary on the trials and parallels of escaping your oppressors after being held against your will for most of your formative years.”

She made a strangely good point, but he digressed.

“It’s fine Hawke, we've settled on terms. He kills me if I hurt you, it's pretty simple. Guy stuff, we don’t expect you to understand,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. Fenris was pleased to see her incredulity soften and a grin pull at her lips.

"What'd Sebastian get you to admit with that trick?" she asked, grinning fully now.

"Hmm, yeah, not telling you that," he said unequivocally.

“That’s not fair, I’m broken and can’t overpower you until you give up and tell me,” she said playfully, holding her side in affected pain.

“It injures my ego when you do that,” he replied, feigning pitifulness.

“Oh no,” Hawke smiled, giving her best heartbrokenly sympathetic face, “Not your poor ego, so sad for the elf.”

“You think because your ribs are broken in multiple places, that I’ll not tickle you?”

“I know this for fact.”

“You’re omniscient now?”

“You guys are being disgusting,” Varric’s sudden observation startled them both.

“Seriously, dwarf,” Fenris said threateningly, turning toward Varric, who stood in the doorway with his palms pressed over his eyes, pompous smirk still visible.

“He has a key,” Hawke clarified through a yawn, “He has a point though, Varric. You did come into my bedroom unannounced. It could have been a lot worse.”

“Gross,” Varric said, putting his hands down and noticing Hawke’s bandaged torso, “Ouch. Av told me about Blondie’s aggression issues. Sorry to see you hurt.”

“Nothing to worry about, I’ll be feeling myself in a few days,” Hawke assured him, half-stifling her next yawn.

“That’s good, because I’ve got a present for you,” Varric said, crossing the room and plopping down on the dressing bench at the end of the bed.

“It’s a good present, but it’s the kind you’re going to have to work for a little bit,” he clarified.

“Alright, color me intrigued, what is it?” Hawke asked.

“Knowledge, my dear Hawke, knowledge. Writings that sound like they have an awful lot to do with our dearest prophet friend, may she rest in the fieriest reaches of the Void.”

“Great,” Hawke perked up, “Where?”

“That’s where the work part comes in… it’s part of a private collection. My guy says he’s seen it in person - says the cover itself actually sports the word ‘Belhim’irsa’.”

“Really? That’s remarkably specific… how’d he come across it?”

“He’s a servant in the family’s mansion – little squeamish drunken elf named Piper. He’d of seen it sooner, but they only let them in to clean the room every couple months, they run a tight ship apparently. They could have had it for years, decades even. This family is known for their collection of ancient Elvish artifacts – one of the best in Thedas as far as I know. Slightly less known is that most of them have to do with blood magic.”

“Who are they?” Fenris asked.

“The Maestons - Lord Rickard Maeston more specifically. Here in Kirkwall, so at least we won’t have to travel,” Varric said, sporting an apprehensive, though winning, smile, “He’s mostly old money, land, property, farms, whatever, important thing is – he’s a big socialite, so he throws a big party every couple months.”

“You think that’s our in?” Fenris asked skeptically, thinking the idea of crashing a Hightown party sounded complicated at best.

“Well, yes and no. That’s where the work part turns kinda gross. It’s under lock and key, magical ward, constant surveillance – you name it, this guy has this collection completely locked down. I’m a little surprised he even lets the help in to clean the place.”

“Was he able to look inside the book at all?” Hawke asked.

“Briefly, but it was in Elvish so he couldn’t read much. He said it’s thick though, and big,” Varric said, gesturing the size with outstretched arms to indicate that it was approximately the length and breadth of a small Mabari and as thick as hearty loaf of bread.

“So, we can’t just walk out with, huh?” Hawke asked.

“No not really,” Varric confirmed, then added, “But what’s the fun in that? Then we wouldn’t get to come up with an over-complicated scheme to get it out of there.”

“Get to?” Hawke asked, not sounding like she was convinced it’d be as much fun as the dwarf obviously thought it would be.

“Must it be _over-_ complicated?” Fenris interjected, but was ignored.

“Aw come on, Hawke, when was the last time we got to hash out some good old-fashioned shenanigans? It’ll be like old times,” Varric said, emphasizing his exuberance by patting Fenris on the shoulder enthusiastically.

“Alright, alright, dwarf,” Fenris did his best to keep his voice from breaking despite Varric’s fervent thumps.

“How long do we have?” Hawke asked, smirking at Fenris’s struggle.

“The quarter-annual ball is in a week,” Varric answered.

“Ball?” Fenris asked incredulously.

“They aren’t always quite so fancy, but if we don’t hit this one up, it could be a month or more before our next chance.”

“You think you can arrange us an invite?” Hawke asked.

“ _Us_? No. The Champion of Kirkwall and our favorite pious prince? Absolutely,” Varric answered.

“Alright,” Hawke sighed, “We better get scheming.”


	3. Chapter 3

There had to be a way to stop her, to convince her not to go. Not to get herself killed, off in some distant place where he couldn’t save her.

_You can save her. You can go with her._

He couldn’t though, it was a matter of principle as much as anything.

_You’re starting to run out of good excuses._

Who was he, if he just blindly followed her wherever she went, adhered to her every whim?

_You’re a soldier, always have been, in one form or another, however reluctant. You’re just following a different leader now._

It wasn’t that simple. He wasn’t just some outlying body being pulled into the gravity of a larger force.

_Then think of it as self-preservation. You won’t be able to forgive yourself if she dies and you’re not there to stop it._

Anders took a long, deliberate breath in. He held it, waited patiently, then just as methodically pushed the breath back out, forcing Justice down with it. The spirit subsided, as much as it ever truly did. Justice’s presence in his mind was becoming more frequent, the spans between instances shorter and shorter. When would he lose control entirely and stop being able to push the spirit from his thoughts? He avoided thinking about it as much as possible, but he often wondered how long it would be until one episode ran seamlessly into the next, and then into the next, and then into the next…

He didn’t know if it was the increased frequency or the fervency with which the spirit now bombarded his thoughts, but either way, Anders knew it was only a matter of time before he’d no longer be able to call his thoughts his own. He had never been able to, entirely, since he’d opened himself as a vessel for the spirit so many years ago. The line between them had always been hazy, but it was different now. Now it seemed to shift, to alter without warning or provocation, always just a hair’s breadth farther from grasp than the previous time.

As if on cue, Anders felt the familiar, nonetheless unsettling, rumble of Justice trying to push back up to the surface. He turned from the fire and saw the reason hobbling through the door to his Darktown clinic. He rose to his feet and quickly made his way across the large room toward her.

Lately, Hawke’s presence unfailingly roused the spirit. It hadn’t always been that way, Justice never seemed to pay her any mind until they’d entered the Fade together some months ago. Anders didn’t know exactly what had happened in there, he rarely knew precisely what happened during the instances when Justice took over completely. The spirit was different after that though, it seemed protective of her, as if it had developed a fondness for her. Which was great, Anders thought, as if fighting his own affections toward Hawke hadn’t been difficult enough, now the disembodied spirit that resided within him had to manifest feelings as well.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, what are you doing?” he said, the sentiment sounding more disciplinary than he meant it, a lapse that had become more and more common of late.

“It’s lovely to see you as well, friend,” Hawke said wryly, her cracked voice unnerving Anders. He quickly scooped an arm around her waist, taking some of the weight off her injured torso, and led her toward the nearest table.

“I told you to rest. That means sleep. Or be awake, while lying down,” he said, knowing she’d make some retort about being ‘so sorry’ that she was unable to sleep for three days straight. Instead she made a gravelly harrumph that made her sound like an elderly veteran, and Anders helped her onto the table, trying to get her to lie down.

“Lie back,” he insisted.

“No,” she said, slapping at his hands inanely.

“You’re so bloody stubborn,” he said, giving up and instead taking her chin in his hand to try and have a look at her eyes.

“Just stop it,” she said, again trying to shove him away, but he ignored her grumblings.

“You need more recovery time, why didn’t you just send for me?” he asked, noting the jaundiced color and bloodshot veins in the whites of her eyes.

“I’m not here for a check-up Anders,” she said, almost haughtily. He gave up his exam and sighed, he should have known she wouldn’t do something so well-reasoned in regards to her own health. Likely she’d waited till Fenris had left to visit Sebastian, sent Bodahn and Orana on some lengthy tasks, then slipped off on her own.

“Of course you’re not,” he said dryly, stepping back to cross his arms, hoping the gesture would act as a sort of subliminal reprimand.

“There’s a text we need to acquire,” she started.

“There’s no ‘we’,” Anders insisted, “ _You’ve_ got more than a week of recovery left, at least.”

Hawke shook her head, “I don’t have a week. There’s an opening and we have to take it.”

“Then someone else needs to take care of it.”

“The plan hinges on group participation. And it involves nobility,” she said plainly. She had done a respectable job in the past few weeks of combatting his anger and aloofness with either an agonizingly cheery disposition or complete disregard, the latter winning out at the moment.

“Varric. Sebastian,” he argued.

“They’ve got their parts, yes,” she said, sounding as if they’d veered off-topic, “They’ll only be able to swing a last minute invite if it’s for the Champion.”

Anders sighed. He knew better, or he should. If Hawke set her mind to something, it would be done, one way or another, with or without his help.

“What do you want me to say? I can’t agree with it, but it isn’t like I’m going to stop you,” he said, turning away from her to clean up some supplies on a nearby table.

“Well…” she started, seeming a bit embarrassed, “That’s not why I’m here either.”

_Of course not, did you expect she’d come begging for her doctor’s permission? Is that like her at all?_

Anders had let his guard slip just long enough and Justice had taken the opportunity to dash back into his thoughts. It took an effort to not audibly grumble in response, and after a few moments of pointlessly shifting items around on the table, he turned back to Hawke.

“What is it, then?” he said, again finding his voice harsher than he intended.

“We need your help. _I_ need your help. I know you don’t want anything to do with the excursion - but I can’t see how we’ll be able to manage this heist without you.”

He had realized a while ago she had formed an ill-conceived notion of his reasoning behind not wanting to help with the preparations for their venture. She thought he had reservations about pursuing and potentially killing other mages, that he had some moral issue with their plan. He had let her think that, as he wasn’t sure how the truth would be received.

Though it was accurate that he was not convinced every mark on that map was a mage-gone-rogue that needed slain, that was not why he had been so harsh with her. It wasn’t why he was refusing to attend meetings, participate in supply runs, or help Merrill with research. It was his vain hope, though he knew it to be futile, that if his lack of help was enough of a burden, she just wouldn’t go.

 _You said it yourself, she will do what she wills. She isn’t swept up in the forces of nature as a normal mortal. She_ is _the impetus, the agency herself._ She _creates the current that guides those around her. Trying to fight her is as futile as wishing that a storm rescind back into the heavens._

Anders sighed audibly, Justice tended to get wrapped up in the poetic when it came to Hawke. The noise earned him a questioning look from the woman, who had given up any pretense of being pain-free, and now held her rib cage tenderly as she leaned heavily on one arm.

He felt a familiar stab of gnawing anxiety as he looked at her pallid face, only sparsely flush due to the exertion of sitting upright. He couldn’t shake it, he hadn’t been able to since finding out about the markings, the map, and Hawke’s plan to get to the bottom of what the prophet had been up to. It was an ill-omen, just an inkling, but to him it felt like divination from the Maker himself - that Hawke would not survive that mission.

His intuition insisted it was a fated tragedy that would be set forth the second she stepped outside the gates to Kirkwall. All he could do was hope to change her mind. Maybe he was being pretentious, thinking that his absence alone would be enough to keep her from seeking the source of the prophet and the Belhim’irsa and all the maleficarum that had brought Kirkwall so much grief, and so many dead bodies.

_There’s still time to help. Think of all the innocent lives being threatened by this evil. Can you truly stand by and do nothing?_

Justice couldn’t, Anders knew that to be true. Half of him couldn’t go, and half of him couldn’t not go. He shuddered as he realized that he now thought of the spirit as half his being. He had known what he was giving up when he did it, but it had taken time to sink in, for him to fully realize all the nuances of sharing a body, or a vessel as Justice liked to think of it.

_If you truly believe her life threatened wouldn’t you rather be there when it is? So you can at least be allowed to do everything in your power to stop it?_

Hawke was still gazing at him expectantly, as if she knew his answer would be no, but was hopeful anyway. She always saw the best in people, despite their deepest flaws.

He looked down for a moment, then replied, “I’ll do what I can.”

She all but gasped in surprise, attempting to hop down off the table, but she winced in pain and aborted her plan part way through. Anders stepped toward the table to catch her, slowing her descent as she slid off the edge, unable to stop her own momentum. He held onto her a few moments longer than necessary, her grateful look distracting him.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely as he took a step back, confirming first that she held her own balance against the edge of the table. He couldn’t help but let a slight smile through, the first she’d likely seen cross his lips in weeks. He was pleased to see the way her face lit up when she saw it, as if getting to see something again that she had thought long-lost.

“I have a caveat,” he clarified.

“Whatever you need, I’ll see to it,” she said, and he was glad to hear no condition with her acceptance.

“You stay home from now until then,” he said, and she nodded eagerly. He stepped closer again to allow her to rest an arm on his shoulder as he helped her toward the doors.

“Let everyone else take care of the preparations. You sleep, you eat, you get waited on hand-and-foot. No exceptions,” he finished.

“You have my word,” she smiled at him again, the sweetness making his heart lurch in his chest. He felt Justice dwindle and sink back down on his own. He knew what the spirit was thinking, that he no longer needed prodding. All it had taken was the guilt of causing Hawke so much pain to drive him to give in to help with this scheme, and it’d be a slippery slope from here.

He continued to help her walk, realizing she’d probably need the assistance the entire way back to Hightown. He tried not to think about how good she felt in his arms, or the light, sweet smell of her, or the way loose wisps of hair fell around her face…

To distract himself he said, “Let’s hear what the plan is.”


	4. Chapter 4

“It’s deceptive in its… alleged… simplicity, I’ll give it that,” Fenris grumbled.

“I’d like to argue that point,” Merrill piped, her voice breaking.

“It’s a risk for Merrill, that’s for certain,” Aveline pointed out.

“Are we sure she won’t be recognized?” Anders asked.

“If we’re concerned about recognition - don’t you think I should be excluded from the plan?” Fenris suggested.

“Broody is right, his look is a bit unique,” Varric agreed.

“I’d say Fenris is pretty essential to the idea, though yes? That role could literally not be played by anyone else,” Anders argued.

“That’s if I can even accomplish it in the first place,” Fenris said.

Hawke sighed. It had been going on like this for quite a while, and they were beginning to talk themselves into circles. Sebastian was the only one who hadn’t spoke in some time, instead leaning by the wall near the fireplace in Hawke’s entry chamber, dancing flames casting shadows across his knit brow. Hawke crossed the room toward him, leaving the others to continue their spiraling conversation. She leaned against the wall near him, holding her still bruised torso gently. It had only been a couple of days since she sustained the injuries, and though better, they were still giving her too much grief for her liking.

“You seem lost in thought,” she said, keeping her voice low.

“At the beginning of this meeting, didn’t you already have a plan?” he asked.

“Yes,” she sighed, “At least, I thought so. Any advice you’d like to throw in the mix?”

“Yes. You’re allowing them too much say,” he said bluntly, eyeing the group scornfully as they continued to argue, oblivious to Hawke’s retreat.

“This has never been a dictatorship,” she said, surprised to learn the reason for his isolation.

“The dynamic has to change Hawke,” he said, quieting his voice, “Or this expedition is never going to work, and we’re all going to argue ourselves into an early grave out there. You have to stop being their friend and start being their leader again. You can’t be both, not now, not for this.”

“Wait,” Hawke started somewhat sheepishly, “ _Our_ selves… into an early grave? Like, Fenris, Varric, Merrill, me and… you? Like _us_?” She raised her eyebrows expectantly at him. He returned her look flatly, then sighed heavily.

“Yes.”

Hawke could feel tension in her chest unwind that she hadn’t even known was there. Having Sebastian join them would be a boon both in battle and for their spirits.

“Thank you Sebastian,” she said appreciatively.

“You’re welcome, but that doesn’t change how I feel about the situation. You can’t let them squabble about every minor detail like this - you have to tell them how it’s going to be.”

“It can’t be that cut and dry,” she said a bit hopelessly. He was unfortunately making a lot of sense.

“I think it is, Hawke. If there’s room for their opinions, they won’t stop pushing until the whole thing has fallen apart. We won’t have time for that out there.”

“I value that though, different outlooks – it gives us perspective,” she argued.

“Taking viewpoints under advisement is one thing. Putting it to a group vote is something else entirely. You know how at odds our opinions are on the subject. For Anders, every mage is innocent until caught, literally, red-handed. Fenris would happily lop of the head of every one of them himself. Aveline would haul them all back to Kirkwall to face a fair trial. Merrill would probably like to sit down and have a chat to see if she can learn anything useful from them. It’s that kind of disjointed behavior that could get us killed out there. We need to be single-minded, to have someone to look to and follow,” he said, sounding more and more regal with each resolute statement.

“What experience gives me that charge? Anders was a Grey Warden, Aveline commands the entire city guard, Varric’s a noble, you’re a prince for Maker’s sake!”

Sebastian shook his head, “You can’t play the reluctant hero anymore. This army needs a general, and it’s the Champion of Kirkwall. It’s the woman who fought back darkspawn from Ferelden to the Free Marches and survived. It’s the woman who was trapped by a mad man in the Deep Roads and managed to escape. It’s the woman that dueled the Arishok to the death, saved the city and won the hearts of its citizens.”

“How about the woman who let both her siblings get killed? Or the woman whose own mother was kidnapped right out from under her nose by a crazed lunatic and then murdered? Or who was too blind to see Isabela’s treachery before it was too late? Take your pick, Sebastian, I don’t think anything about that woman screams ‘unwavering leader’,” she said.

“You have to stop feeling guilty about things that were beyond your control,” he said, the hardness in his tone beginning to falter in favor of compassion.

“It isn’t guilt,” she said, sighing and looking away, “It’s a bloody curse.”

“You’re no one’s curse, Hawke,” he said sincerely.

“How about the time I made you guys all take part in a blood magic ritual?” she added, tilting her head accusatorially.

Sebastian sighed, “No one forced us, and certainly not you… you were all but dead.”

Hawke gave him a pointed look, but let him continue.

“You’d have done the same for any of us. Yes, it’s a terrible thing, but it was done out of love and devotion, because the six of us care about you more than reason itself. It was dangerous, but we couldn’t let you die if we had a chance to let you live. That was a choice we all made, together. When it comes to you, Hawke, we’re steadfast.”

She had always been eager for advice Sebastian was willing to offer. Though he acted as though knowledge of leadership was something never afforded him, it came naturally to him either way, it was in his blood. Hawke knew he was right on this point, as he so often was. She had been finding excuses over the last few months to back away from her commanding role. What had happened with the prophet and Belhim’irsa had intimidated her. Instead of accepting that and dealing with the reasons why, she was trying to train, research and prepare them out of existence.

“Just think about it, okay?” Sebastian said, and she was surprised when he stepped toward her and planted a kiss on her forehead, like an older brother to a wayward sister. As he crossed the room back toward the others, her heart momentarily lurched with memories of Carver. He had always tried to treat her like a little sister, even though she was older. She was shocked back out of the moment however when Sebastian’s fist hit the table forcefully. The others were instantly silenced, turning to look at him with the same surprise that struck Hawke’s face.

“There will be no more discussion about this,” he said firmly, “The plan will work, and we will implement it as it stands now.”

No one said anything for a few long moments, they weren’t used to seeing Sebastian like that. In fact, they’d never seen it.

“Choir Boy’s right,” Varric said after a moment, sounding a bit apprehensive and eyeing Sebastian warily, “We all know what we need to do to get ready.”

“Let’s have it done then,” Sebastian said amicably, the temper having cooled from his tone. The others nodded in assent and broke quietly into smaller groups to discuss preparations. Sebastian turned back toward Hawke, approaching a few paces, then sweeping into a stately bow, flourishing gracefully with one hand. Hawke had to stifle a laugh at the gesture. Her grin was returned in kind as he stood, then turned and glided away toward the front door.

Hawke laid herself down carefully onto the lounge in front of the fireplace, adjusting until her torso was as pain free as possible. She let herself sink into her thoughts as she stared at the flickering flames, trying to work out the reasons behind her wavering mindset. She knew where to start, with the guilt she felt over everything that had happened since their discovery of the prophet and her flocks.

Fenris had been gutted and almost died because the Belhim’irsa could sense her fondness for him. She hadn’t admitted it to him, but this worried her. She found herself wanting to distance herself from the elf so he wouldn’t be as likely to be put in harms way in the future. She couldn’t resist him, however, she felt drawn to him both physically and emotionally, and no matter how resolute her thoughts on the subject, she’d find herself moments later languishing in his embrace and unable to tear herself away.

Then there was Anders. Justice had saved Fenris’s life, likely all their lives. Though she wouldn’t have it any other way, it had shown how much control Anders had been able, or willing, to give up to the spirit, as well as how much the two were starting to become one. She knew she was overdue a discussion with the mage about it, but the way he had been acting of late, she was afraid he would distance himself even more, or worse, leave for good, if she were to push the issue.

Then there was the ritual they had done to save her. It was this that tormented her dreams, this that created the dense, heavy guilt that pulled at her heart when she was awake. She should have died, and she knew that without the ritual, she would have. As much as she wanted to distance herself from the events of that night, she could still feel it, like a taint upon her very essence. What natural order might they have disrupted?

It seemed like every day the lot of them were, in one way or another, put in charge of saying who lived and who died, but somehow, bringing her back from the brink seemed different, it seemed wrong. Maybe it was because of how very little she knew about what they’d done. Merrill had all kinds of dark knowledge that Hawke normally avoided conceptualizing, for her own peace of mind, but Hawke had never understood how the elf had known how to save her.

She knew this was a major reason she’d become so consumed with preparations, she felt she had something to prove. She was trying to make up for what she felt was a breach in the mortal coil - to justify her continued existence, right or wrong, by destroying this new and dangerous order of maleficarum. So then, if she was so intent on eliminating the apostates responsible for the Belhim’irsa, why was she so reluctant to be the one to lead the troops into battle?

They had never faced a threat that widespread before, and though she’d never admit it to the others, she was intimidated. Would the Champion of Kirkwall be able to succeed outside the city gates? Or was she leading them all to ruin, to certain death? There was that nagging, persistent question again, the one that had plagued her thoughts for years - were they all better off without her? The rest of her family had perished in the wake of her, was she going to get her new family killed as well? Would they all be better off, safer at least, without her?

She waved as they trickled out one by one, off to attend to the tasks that had been laid before them. She knew her own assignment all too well, after Anders had returned her to an incensed Fenris the previous day, she had received a thorough scolding from them both about the importance of rest and recovery. Though it had annoyed her at the time, she remembered it fondly now as one of the rare instances in which the two men were of one mind. She was pleased to know she could bring that out in them, at least.

The two were often at odds, but when it came to her they really had seemed to come to an understanding, as Fenris had mentioned the other day. It surprised her, she felt if the roles were switched up and someone else had show an interest in Fenris, she’d be routed with jealousy. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe none of it was that simple between them all now, so routine. They’d become a cohesive entity and as certain relationships shifted, the others melded around it to make them fit, make them work. They were more functional than she gave them credit for.

So she promised herself she would make a concerted effort to step back into her role, to be the leader they needed her to be, hoping it would allow them to continue functioning, to move forward as one. She tried to rehash the things she needed to work on, things she’d done wrong and how to correct them in the future, but it wasn’t long before she let her eyes shut, ready to let sleep take her.


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke wasn’t sure why it hadn’t crossed her mind before now. She knew what the event was, and she knew she’d be attending it socially, albeit a ruse. She gasped for air as Aveline wrenched the corset tighter.

“Maker’s breath Av,” she wheezed, “Be careful, my ribs were broken just a week ago.”

“Sorry,” Aveline said ruefully, then her eyebrows shot up excitedly again. The guard captain was gaining entirely too much enjoyment from this experience for Hawke’s liking. She wondered if Aveline had purposefully managed to find what Hawke could only imagine was the frilliest, pouffiest, most impractical dress in all of Kirkwall.

“There we go,” Aveline said pleasantly, tucking the corset ties in and patting the spot tenderly. She stood and began fussing with Hawke’s hair, tossing sections over her shoulder only to bring them behind her back again, smoothing them gently. Aveline had insisted she wear her hair down in loose rolling waves, something that had taken a ludicrous amount of time to accomplish.

Though the fashion for this kind of event was more commonly an updo, Aveline thought it would help her stand out or at least set an example that she wouldn’t pander to the expectations of the nobility. Hawke was pretty sure she had amended the latter to her sentiment only after seeing the incredulous look on Hawke’s face at the suggestion that she might want to _stand out_. As if the Champion of Kirkwall attending her first social event _ever_ needed any more attention called to it. If Hawke had her way, it would also be her _last_ social event ever.

“We’re ready,” Aveline announced, and Hawke sighed with relief. She started to move toward the door to head downstairs and realized for the first time how difficult it was going to be to move in this contraption.

“We maybe should have practiced this,” Aveline suggested remorsefully as Hawke rotated her body awkwardly left and right, convinced the dress wouldn’t fit through the door if she attempted it straight-on. With only a few minor incidents, she was able to get out the door, down the stairs and into the entryway where Fenris, Merrill and Sebastian were waiting.

Fenris’s reaction was not what she had thought it’d be. He didn’t appear to recognize her at first, as if there would be someone else traipsing about in a ball gown in her front hallway. The elf’s eyes widened upon recognition, and he visibly blushed. He said nothing, but did not look away. She raised an eyebrow at him, intending to force an explanation of his reaction, but instead turned as Sebastian approached her.

Regal didn’t begin to cover it. The man filled out his formal attire impressively, and he wore it like it was a second skin. Hawke could only imagine how she looked in comparison. The gown felt like a parasite, and in addition to dragging her down physically, it was wreaking havoc on her confidence. Not only did it provide absolutely no utility, save whatever could be gained from not being completely naked, it was unwieldy and difficult. If it came down to fighting, she thought she’d have to rip it down to the slip to manage it. Theoretically, it wouldn’t come to violence - it was not part of the plan after all.

At least that’s what she thought until she saw Varric’s reaction as he entered through her front door, trailed by Anders. The dwarf barked a laugh, which he quickly stifled as Hawke gave him a deadly look.

“Sorry Hawke… you look beautiful, really, it’s just… not you, that’s all,” Varric said genuinely.

“Tell me about it,” she muttered, then looked past the dwarf to Anders. He stood framed in the entryway, the door swinging its way back shut and startling him when it hit him in the back as he stared at her. His reaction wasn’t unlike Fenris’s, though he followed it up with a small, heartening smile which lifted her spirits some.

“You look lovely, Hawke,” Sebastian said, giving her shoulder a squeeze of assurance, then turning to retrieve a second set of formalwear lying on the bench behind him. He motioned to Anders who snapped out of his stare and walked farther inside toward the archer.

“I had it hemmed, it should fit well enough for one night,” Sebastian said.

“Are you calling me short?” Anders asked.

“Just short- _er_ …” Sebastian replied as the two disappeared deeper into the mansion.

“I have to say,” Varric said, “I never thought I’d see you in a dress, Hawke. This truly is a momentous occasion.”

“Let’s call it a singularity,” she said, nervously pulling at the sides of the corset in discomfort. Aveline stood aside, beaming like a proud mother. She had been somewhat distraught that her role in the heist wasn’t more involved. It was too risky to include her too much however, due to her already prominent role as Captain of the Guard and thus notable connection to the Champion. So when she had shown excitement at the prospect of Hawke needing to dress like a noble, Hawke figured she would let her take the reigns for her preparation.

“How’d you get your hair to do that?” Merrill asked, approaching Hawke and twirling a lock around her finger lightly, staring at it as if it was an entirely foreign substance.

“How’d you get your _waist_ to do that?” Varric asked, poking his fingers at either side of the tightest part of the corset. She slapped his hands away crossly.

“Alright, alright, that’s quite enough,” Hawke said, trying not to let her nerves show in her voice. Fenris had been strangely quiet, and when she turned to seek him out, she found him sitting on the bench on the opposite side of the hallway. He looked particularly broody, likely due to his high-necked servant’s attire of thick, heavy wool, doubled over another set of the same. Though patently impractical, it was what they had to do in order to obscure as much of his lyrium tattoos as possible. They’d used some kind of herbal mixture Merrill had concocted to dye his white hair, and it now fell in a deep black swath across his eyes. As Aveline started to enthusiastically inform Merrill of how to curl one’s hair, Hawke picked up the sides of her dress and scuttled over toward him.

“I’d sit down, but I’m pretty sure I can’t,” she said. He looked up at her, then took her hand and stood.

“You look beautiful Hawke, truly. I agree it’s not really you, but… I find myself not caring,” he smiled, eying her to gauge her reaction. She grinned and let him kiss her, for a few moments at least, until Varric groaned audibly. Though reluctant, she let Fenris pull away, some of the heat between them dissipating, which only made her want to go back to him that much more.

“I’ll take good care of her, Fenris,” Sebastian said. She turned to find the archer only steps behind her, having returned with a dressed and groomed Anders. Though the mage’s beard remained, it was now trimmed in a neat line along his jaw. His hair, normally tied, was loose but slicked back with some kind of substance Sebastian must have leant him. He looked quite dashing, though she found herself instantly annoyed at how quickly he was able to get ready. She’d been preparing in that room with Aveline for half the day.

“I better go pick up my _date_ …” Anders said begrudgingly, giving her a small nod as he passed by and left back out the front door. Hawke was surprised, she thought seducing a young, beautiful and certainly naive noblewoman would have been one part of the plan he would enjoy.

“So I’ve been thinking - maybe it’d be better to use some kind of poison rather than the sleeping agent. It will take affect much faster,” Varric announced, to no one in particular.

“That doesn’t guarantee they’ll be unconscious though,” Aveline pointed out.

“Stick with the plan, Varric, it’s too dangerous otherwise,” Hawke asserted. She was surprised at herself - without giving it a second though, she had quelled the approaching argument. She resisted looking to Sebastian for validation, but found herself doing it anyways. He recognized the significance of her look, smiled, and gave her a reassuring nod.

“Yes, boss,” Varric said, feigning indignation, then nodded to Merrill and Fenris, “We should head over. See you two lovely high-borns there?”

Hawke gave him an affirmative nod and the three left.

She turned back to Sebastian, “Ok, let’s go through all this formality and etiquette nonsense again.”


	6. Chapter 6

As they entered through the servant’s entrance to the mansion, Fenris was relieved to see the kitchen crowded and chaotic. Elvish servants bustled about with various tasks, attendants carrying trays of food and drinks in and out while the cooks busily prepared food of all kinds. Most Fenris recognized, dishes from Antiva, Orlais, even Tevinter, but some were foreign to him, their smells wafting up from the cook pots and causing his stomach to rumble.

Merrill stepped inside the door after him, looking beyond apprehensive. He itched at the thick wool cowl draped around his neck.Though he knew it a necessary precaution, it annoyed him no less. Varric motioned to a lanky, slight elf, likely his contact, Piper. They converged half way across the bustling room to speak, but Fenris couldn’t make out the hushed words over the din of the kitchen.

After a few moments he saw Piper talking to a cook, motioning toward Fenris and Merrill. The cook nodded in apparent assent and then turned away, continuing with his task. Piper turned back toward them with a nod, taking it as their cue to cross the room toward him. The heat, and thus Fenris’s extreme discomfort, increased as they passed by the half dozen kitchen fires.

Piper set them to a task of filling trays of goblets with wine, indicating to them secretively the door they were to pass through later, then scuttled away past Varric, who gave the elf a pat on the back as he crossed by. Varric gave Fenris a significant look, then grabbed a goblet off a passing tray and drank the contents in one long draw. He stepped closer to the busiest set of doors - likely the ones that led directly out to the ballroom. He started to pace, whistling and flipping a coin casually. Fenris concentrated on his task, not wanting anyone to notice him giving the dwarf too much regard. The smell of the wine wafted up into his nostrils as he poured each cup, causing his mouth to water.

After only a few moments, Fenris heard a crash and looked up to find that two servants had somehow collided, plates of food and goblets of wine strewn everywhere. Varric stood nearby, feigning complete shock and attempting to help one of the servants up, only to ‘accidentally’ knock her into another attendant as they obliviously entered from the ballroom. The resulting pile up of attendants was positively catastrophic, it being labeled a ‘distraction’ was an understatement. He didn’t expect it to be subtle, but this seemed excessively dramatic.

Merrill gaped at the dwarf, but knowing he should waste no time, Fenris grabbed her by the hand and led her down the now unwatched hallway behind them. He shuttled Merrill through the doorway at the end of the hall, checking over his shoulder to make sure there were no residual onlookers, then shut the door quietly behind them.

“Alright,” Merrill said, breathing a sigh of relief, “So, it’s right, left, left, right, right. Right?”

Fenris groaned, “I knew what it was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before you started listing directions randomly!”

“They’re not random, that’s what it is… I think,” she squeaked.

He took a breath and tried to clear his head, “I think it’s right, left, left, right, left.”

“No… I distinctly remember there being more rights. It must be right, left, left, right, right. Or right, left, right, right, left.”

Fenris positively wanted to strangle the mage. Merrill must have noticed his ire as she exclaimed defensively, “Why didn’t you just write it on your bloody arm then? You’re covered head to toe anyway!”

“We could have been searched,” Fenris growled.

“Then how about on your bum, they wouldn’t have checked _there_!” she said vehemently, though despite her best efforts, the word _bum_ still sounded adorable. Fenris clenched his jaw, deciding it best to turn away from her, so he didn’t _actually_ strangle her, then started down the hallway toward their destination… maybe.

After winding their way through the hallways for a few minutes, they came to the door they believed to be correct. This estate was enormous even by the wealthiest standards, and must have had over a dozen pantries. This was the only that shared a wall with the hallway that could lead them into the right section of the rest of the mansion. They opened the door and entered the small room. There was no lantern burning inside, so Merrill held the door ajar while Fenris found a sconce to light. As the flickering firelight filled the room, Merrill stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her.

“Fenedhis - this isn’t it,” Fenris grumbled.

“What?” Merrill asked, her eyes growing wide with panic.

“This has no other door - the right one has an entrance on both the east and west side, we must have taken a wrong turn,” he said, “I told you it was right, left, left, right-” Fenris was startled when Merrill suddenly reached a hand up to his mouth to quiet him. Whistling and footsteps, and they were growing closer. They both froze, not moving a muscle as it became increasingly clear where the footsteps were headed. Suddenly, Merrill pushed Fenris hard against the opposite wall, then leapt onto him, latching her legs around his hips as she locked him into a kiss.

“Blighted fools! What in the name of the bloody Void are you doing?” a rotund elf wearing a cook’s apron exclaimed as he threw open the door. Fenris didn’t have to feign shock as Merrill climbed down off of him, the mage blushing and turning to pander to the man.

“Messere, we’re sorry, Messere - we were sent for flour and wine, Messere,” she said, then cooed sweetly, “It’s just, we just got married.”

She held her fingers in the man’s face as if to show off a wedding band, though Fenris was fairly certain she had no rings on. The man pushed her hand down and out of his face, looking annoyed.

“Bloody hired help - just get back to the kitchens,” he grumbled, giving Fenris a stone hard look as he and Merrill quickly exited past the cook. Maybe Merrill was going to be better at this than he thought.

The two said nothing and did not look at one another as they marched down the hallway toward where they must have made the wrong turn. As they passed the corner, Fenris stole a glance back at the elf who was busily filling a basket with supplies and shaking his head grumpily.

They continued down the hall until Fenris was certain they had retraced their steps and corrected their route. He stepped inside the pantry, confirming the door on the opposite side which indicated it was the correct room.

“I panicked,” Merrill breathed apologetically as Fenris shut the door quietly behind them.

“It’s fine,” he said, though he was still quite disturbed, “It more than likely saved us.”

Merrill said nothing more but nodded to herself as if conferring with an inner dialogue. Fenris tried the door on the opposite wall - barred from the other side, much as they’d suspected. This was the first place he’d have to cross through to start their journey inward toward the room that held the tome.

“This is it,” he confirmed, and Merrill looked like she was trying to pull herself back together with a concerted effort. Fenris was surprised at the flush he still felt on his own face, and wasn’t sure if his heart was still racing from almost having been found out or because of Merrill’s unexpected tactics.

“Ok,” she said, “So how does this work? Is there some kind of trigger, like an incantation or..?”

“Not so much…” he said, “I just need a few minutes to focus.”

He turned toward the door. It had become harder in recent years to use his power at will. When he had used it for Danarius, it was because he had to, he didn’t know any better. He had been programmed, trained like an animal and when his master said the word, he had replied on cue. He tried to remember how that felt, how he was able to turn it on and off with such ease.

“I think you and Hawke are so sweet together,” Merrill said suddenly. Fenris sighed.

“Thanks, Merrill,” he said, trying not to seem too irritated.

“I was so surprised when she kissed you. After she died, I mean!” the elf sounded delighted, “Just sat right up and grabbed you by the shirt!”

It went on like that for a while…

“Do you ever miss Isabela? I know what she did was bad, but she was always so kind to me.”

“Have you ever thought about moving out of that dreadful mansion? Pff, of course you haven’t - even an old, empty, lonely mansion is nicer than the alienage.”

“Did you see how nicely Anders cleans up? It was so weird to see his hair like that… yours too!” she exclaimed as she gave his newly blackened mane a toss with her fingers.

“We don’t talk much, just you and I. This is nice.”

“Do you ever get tired of scrubbing them clean?" she picked up her own bare foot and held it out next to Fenris's, "And the callouses can be so painful - sometimes I wonder why I don't just swing up to Lowtown and pick up a pair of boots."

“What's it like in Tevinter? I mean, I know elves, slaves, badness. But free, powerful mages? That must be fascinating!"

He couldn't let it go on any longer, so he grumbled irritably, "Yes, it's all parades and blood magic in the streets. Merrill, the chit chat isn't really working for me, can we just be silent for a while?”

Merrill picked quietly at her fingernails for a few moments as he tried to focus on using his ability. He was just starting to think it was the longest she may have ever gone without speaking when she piped up again.

“Too bad you can’t phase objects through with you, then you could just walk right out with the tome!” she said enthusiastically.

“Yeah too bad,” he replied irritably.

“Say, how come you can’t take objects but your clothes come with you? That’s strange, right?” she said, sounding intensely intrigued by her own question. Pausing just long enough to take a breath, she continued, “And the floor, right? Why don’t you just fall through the floor and into the cellar?”

“This is hardly an exact science, Merrill,” he growled, “Before I met Hawke, I used this talent for one and only one reason, and that was to crush the still-beating hearts of my master’s foes from directly within their chest.”

“Oh it worked!” she squealed. He turned to see his tattoos glowing with the familiar blue light. He quickly pressed his hand into the solid wood door, the uncomfortable feeling of the lyrium-fueled power pressing on every fiber of his being. He slid the rest of the way through, surprised by the effortlessness of it.

He could only imagine the fit of glee Merrill was currently enthralled in on the other side of the door. He clenched and released his fists, watching as the glow subsided along with his ire. He was reminded of the last few times he’d used his power. Once while fighting the Belhim’irsa, he’d negated what would have been a killing blow by letting it pass right through him. And before that… when in a fit of rage he couldn’t even remember, he killed the Prophet Malefica as Hawke lay dying at his feet.

Those two things seemed to predictably allow him use of the ability - instinct and fury. It was going to be a long, angry night.


	7. Chapter 7

“Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven escorting Lady Aralynn Hawke of house Amell, Champion of Kirkwall.”

Hawke audibly groaned, and Sebastian gave her a warning look, though no one else was close enough to have heard it.

“Sorry,” she said quietly, then followed as Sebastian led her through the wide, grand doorway and into the ballroom, past the stuffy-looking man who had announced their arrival. Far too many heads for Hawke’s liking turned toward them to watch their entrance. Sebastian slid gracefully down the white marble stairs that led into the enormous recessed room while Hawke did her best to not trip and roll the rest of the way down with the poor man in tow. The tiny, heeled shoes Aveline had supplied her with were truly a travesty.

They made it to the bottom of the steps without incident and she tucked herself tightly into the relative safety of Sebastian’s bent arm, letting him lead her toward a cluster of eager looking nobles.

“My Lady Champion,” a tall, boisterous man with a receding hairline boomed, amusing Hawke with which parts of her title he chose to include. He stepped forward to greet them, taking her hand in his as Sebastian offered it forward. Hawke was annoyed equally by the groveling way the man proceeded to kiss her hand as by the way her escort had so ritualistically offered it up.

“Lady Aralynn, meet Lord Rickard Maeston,” Sebastian stated the formal introduction, smiling toward the man in a way that implied previous familiarity.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Maeston,” she said, bowing into a small and surprisingly graceful curtsy, “Thank you so much for inviting me, your home is truly splendid.”

Hawke was instantly disgusted by her own performance - had a more artificial and clearly rehearsed line ever been delivered? Covert operations weren’t turning out to be her forte.

“Of course my lady, the pleasure is entirely my own. Your presence truly delights us all,” he replied, seeming genuine.

“Prince Sebastian, it’s such a pleasure to see you again. I heard what happened with your family, such a travesty. Please accept my sincerest condolences,” Lord Maeston said, nodding his head slightly in deference. Hawke tried not to glare at the man, doubting very much that his condolences were anything but self-serving.

“Thank you, Lord Maeston, your consolation is much appreciated,” Sebastian replied as they were approached by a tall, thin man with striking blue eyes and a thick, neatly trimmed beard.

“Ah - let me introduce my brother, Federic,” Lord Maeston said. Sebastian seemed a bit surprised to see the man, but greeted him with a formal, if curt, nod. An attendant trailed behind Federic with a despondent but patient look, never raising his gaze above the floor. Hawke would recognize that look anywhere, the man was his slave.

“Lovely to meet you, Champion,” Federic said, lifting her hand to kiss it formally, but not moving his eyes from hers. Though the man seemed relatively harmless, his gaze was unnerving.

“Sebastian, I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d have more important matters to attend,” Federic said. His meaning wasn’t subtle - like reclaiming the throne of Starkhaven or avenging his family’s murders.

“I trust Cousin Goran to manage things in my absence,” he replied, then changed topics, “How do you find Val Royeaux, Federic?”

By Federic’s reaction, Hawke would have thought he had called him a filthy nug eater.

The man recovered however and said, “It’s the most beautiful city in all of Thedas. The wine and women are unmatched as well.”

The men laughed affectedly as Hawke tried not to gag.

“Save this lovely Ferelden specimen,” Federic said suddenly, turning back to Hawke, “You look positively radiant, Lady Hawke.”

“You’re too kind,” she said, trying her best not to grit her teeth. Specimen? Was this guy for real?

“I apologize, Rickard, but I must take my leave early, we sail at first light,” Federic announced.

“Of course, safe journey brother,” Lord Maeston said, gripping the man on the shoulder cordially.

Federic turned to give them each a deferential nod, “Pleasure to meet you Champion. Sebastian.”

Hawke sighed, realizing this was going to be how the night would go - formal introductions to people whose names she would likely forget instantly and small talk with an underlying current of contempt. She felt like she could be in more danger here than she ever was in Darktown.

Hawke tried not to panic as she was swarmed by nearby noblewomen along with an onslaught of questions about her hair, dress and makeup. She watched, horrified, as Sebastian stepped away with Lord Maeston, tossing an apologetic look back over his shoulder.

After half an agonizing hour, Hawke managed to escape the throng of women and return to Sebastian’s side near a table of drinks and food. He was looking across the ballroom past her, but was able to hand Hawke a much needed goblet of wine without breaking his stare. She did her best to chug the drink in a lady-like manner, then set the empty glass down and took up another. She felt a modicum of relief as the liquid warmed her belly and loosened her nerves. She turned to see what Sebastian was looking at.

Far across the enormous ballroom, Varric stood with an attractive pair of female servants. After passing off Fenris and Merrill, he had apparently changed into formal attire, though with his chest hair hanging out and gold chain shining, he still managed to look entirely _Varric_. He offered the women a couple glasses and a bottle of wine, which they took and then walked toward the back corner of the room, likely on their way to either knowingly or unknowingly drug a handful of Lord Maeston’s guards. The dwarf turned and flashed her and Sebastian a none-too-sly thumbs up.

“Have a good chat with Lord Maeston, traitor?” Hawke asked Sebastian, receiving a level look as he turned back toward her.

“You’d rather I offend our host?”

“No, I want you to not have abandoned me to that pack of wolves. Which is being cruel to wolves,” Hawke replied glumly.

“You want some appetizers to go with that whine?” he asked. The look Hawke gave him could have killed, but he only smiled endearingly back at her as he took a bite out of a fancy, rolled-up delicacy of some kind.

“Seems risky,” Sebastian said, changing the subject, “Why doesn’t Varric just deliver it himself?”

“I don’t know about you, but I was suspicious the first time Varric offered me a drink,” Hawke explained, “And then he can’t be directly implicated, should things go awry.”

Sebastian nodded in comprehension, though Hawke barely noticed as she caught a glimpse of Anders. He was standing with his date, Lady Eloise, and a cluster of other couples on the opposite side of the dance floor. The woman was extremely beautiful, long golden locks of hair curled up into intricate designs on top of her head. She was very young, almost indecently so to have been escorted by a man of Anders’s age. She hung off the mage’s shoulder in a pandering manner, giggling as he spoke to the group of young nobles around him.

“Hawke, we’re not to give one another away, yes?” Sebastian said under his breath as a gaggle of nobility sauntered past on their way to the dance floor.

“Sorry?” she asked absentmindedly.

“You’re just staring a bit is all,” Sebastian said, seeming concerned.

“Sorry - I… I didn’t realize,” she said truthfully, pulling her eyes away to turn and look at the archer. Sebastian’s look was unreadable, but it caused Hawke to feel like she had been caught in something, even though she didn’t know what.

“Let’s dance,” he suggested. It surprised her, but she assented, setting down her wine glass and taking his hand, allowing him to lead her toward the dance floor. After practicing with him every night over the last week, this was one part of aristocracy she had actually come to feel comfortable with.

It had been a mess at first, but she had it down in a matter ofhours as soon as Sebastian had offered up the helpful, though born of frustration, suggestion of approaching it as fighting style. And it was, in a lot of ways. The particular dance type was a tactic, each step a reaction that became instinctual, playing off your foe’s strategy. Just turn your assailant into your dance partner, and eliminate the weapons and deadly force. Same thing, really.


	8. Chapter 8

Anders wasn’t sure why he had decided to pose as an obnoxious, slightly stupid son of a distant lord, but it seemed to have done the trick, as Lady Eloise had been following him around like a lost kitten all night. No, he thought, kittens had far more dignity.

“So I said, 'It's alright, that's not blood, it's an Antivan red!'” he said theatrically, causing a roar of laughter to erupt in the group of young nobles that had collected around them.

“Eloise, I adore him,” a lanky brunette declared as she eyed him up and down unsettlingly, “How’d you ever snag such a funny one?”

“I’m afraid it was I who had to had to do the snagging,” Anders clarified, “The Lady was impervious to my childish schemes to gain her esteem. But after a noble hunt, she deigned to grant pity upon me long enough to allow me to escort her this evening.” He took one of Eloise’s small hands, lavishing it a delicate kiss. Gag, he thought. Just plain gag.

Eloise giggled, “Oh stop, you!”

A young nobleman started to tell a tale and Anders was grateful to have the attention diverted away from him for a while. Since stepping through the door Eloise had dragged him from group to group, introducing him to what must be every person she’d ever met. So much for keeping a low profile. Something caught his eye and he looked across the group toward the center of the room.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to look at them, but he couldn’t not watch her as Sebastian spun her gracefully across the dance floor. As uncomfortable as Hawke had seemed earlier in the night, she now made up for it in spades, looking like she’d been born in a ball gown. Her hair flew out behind her with each move, falling gracefully back down to her shoulders as she turned into Sebastian’s arms and then spun back out again. He could tell her flushed face and smile at the prince were genuine. He was pleased to see her so happy and carefree.

“Do you know her, the Champion?” Eloise asked suddenly.

“Ah - no,” he said too quickly, “I mean, him, I’m looking at him… I thought I recognized him. Isn’t he a prince of… Tantervale?”

“Starkhaven, but yes! So you do know something about Free Marcher politics,” she cooed, and Anders stifled an eye roll as the girl started to hang off his shoulder again. She launched into a scandalized version of the events surrounding the deaths of Sebastian’s family. Anders half listened, stealing a look occasionally at the entrance to the kitchens. After a few minutes, having heard enough of the story to feel incredibly bad for Sebastian, he saw Varric come back through the kitchen doors, unnoticed. He nodded once to Anders.

“Eloise - let me get you another drink,” he said, knowing the excuse lame. Her reaction was pleased however and she gave him a knowing look, like she thought his intention was to get her more inebriated, as to lose her inhibitions. He made an effort not to grimace. Eloise was quite beautiful, by any standards, but she was so very, painfully young.

“I’ll return to you shortly,” he said, then kissed her hand delicately and walked away. After meandering for a few moments, as not to draw a direct line to his intended destination, he eventually made his way to the hallway in the back corner of the ballroom, now devoid of guards. Varric stood waiting around the corner, looking quite pleased.

“Things are going well,” the dwarf said, “Fenris and Merrill should be waiting.”

Anders peeked back around the corner toward Eloise, “I’m not sure how long my absence will go unnoticed Varric, she’s a little obsessed.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Varric said, reaching up as if to pinch Anders’s cheek, but he slapped it away, “Don’t worry, Blondie, I’ve got you covered.”

Anders leaned back around the corner and saw an astonishingly handsome man walk up and introduce himself to Eloise. She seemed surprised, but instantly melted as the man gave her hand a delicate kiss. After talking for only a few moments, Eloise was hanging off the man’s shoulder and giggling.

“That was easy. I’m a little hurt,” Anders feigned a sniffle, then stepped through the unlocked door as Varric chuckled and latched it behind him. He walked down the dim hallway a few paces then turned the corner to where he was supposed to meet the elves. Fenris and Merrill were waiting, pressed up against the wall in a roguish manner.

“Guys, no one is here, relax,” Anders said as the two peeled themselves away from the wall.

“There were… a couple incidents,” Merrill said, looking embarrassed, “We’re just a little on edge now.”

“The cook was an anomaly, but the guard… our timing should be spot on, I’m not sure how we encountered him,” Fenris explained as he started down the hallway, Anders and Merrill following shortly after.

“We hid from them. Both of them. The cook and the guard,” Merrill said quickly. Anders gave her a quizzical look.

“Also, remind me again why you couldn’t just have come in with me?” Anders asked.

“Where do you think we are? They wouldn’t let an elf out in front of the _company_ ,” Fenris grumbled.

“Then why couldn’t I have just come in with you?”

“Date that bad, huh?” Fenris seemed amuse.

“They only have elvish servants,” Merrill chimed in, then started pulling at Anders ears playfully.

“Quit it - “ he said, fending off her attack.

“Just checking to make sure you aren’t an elf,” she smiled up at him. Suddenly, Fenris had scooped the two of them back against the wall with one arm, covering Merrill’s mouth with his other hand. A hallway crossed their path not a meter ahead, and they could hear voices echoing against the stone walls. Merrill’s eyes grew wide and Fenris relaxed his grip once he saw they’d caught on to the danger.

The three stood completely breathless, listening to the two guards' discussion grow louder and louder as they approached their path. After a few moments, they crossed by, thankfully continuing down the same hallway and then disappearing into a door a few meters down. Anders let out a sigh of relief.

“We’re on time, aren’t we?” Anders spoke quietly what the others were surely thinking.

“We are… they must have been off-duty,” Merrill said.

“Let’s keep the banter to a minimum, just to be safe,” Fenris suggested, keeping his voice low as well. Anders and Merrill nodded in silent assent and continued to follow him down the hallway.

After half a dozen more locked doors, Fenris passing through to unlock them from the other side, they came to a long hallway hung with portraits of previous Lord and Lady Maestons. A series of low benches sat along the opposite side of the wall, separated by ornately carved oil lamps. Fenris dug around underneath one of the benches, producing a bundle of clothing, a staff, and a sack of smaller items, all of which Piper had smuggled in and stashed for them. Merrill took the bag of clothing and began to remove her servants garb when her face suddenly flushed a deep crimson.

“Can you guys just keep a lookout or something?” she piped, clearly embarrassed to change down to her smallclothes in front of them. They apologized and separated, standing on either side of her, each keeping watch down one side of the hallway.

Keeping his look focused down the hall, Anders asked in a low voice, “Are we still good on timing?”

“We’re a few minutes delayed, but we had enough buffer we should be fine for the guard change,” Fenris replied.

“ _Should_ doesn’t fill me with an enormous sense of security.”

“It is what it is, mage. I can’t summon my deadly powers on cue like you lot.”

“Let’s not start this,” Merrill said, sounding like getting her new wardrobe on was a concerted effort.

“Need help Daisy? I won’t ogle, I swear,” Anders offered.

“No, I got it, I’m done,” she muttered. Anders and Fenris turned back around, each grabbing a small kit of dye and brushes out of the sack. Anders grabbed Merrill’s hands, quickly painting each of her fingernails with the black ink, then creating an ornate, if not random, pattern on each of the tops of her hands. Fenris also created a pattern of lines around her cheeks, attempting symmetry between the two sides.

“Is this what it’s like to be a lady?” Merrill giggled, “Having your handmaidens fuss over you?”

Anders replied, “I prefer lady-in-waiting,” while Fenris grumbled, “I have a pointy object very close to your eye right now.”

Anders bent to help the elf step into her boots while Fenris applied more dye in a dark swath across her forehead, covering her face from hairline to the tops of her cheek bones. Merrill seemed to stop breathing as Fenris leaned in closer to apply the makeup more carefully around her eyes in the dim lantern light. Anders was a bit confused, something strange seemed to be going on between the two.

“You’re suspiciously good at that, Fenris,” Anders quipped, attempting to take some of the tension out of the air, but it didn’t seem to affect either of them. Fenris finished and the two men took a step back, taking in the whole look.

Merrill was draped in dramatic folds of dark, torn fabric, cinched together at the waist with a roughened leather corset. Multiple belts criss-crossed at various angles holding pouches and vials, and she held a gnarled wooden staff, etched with skulls and crows. The jagged patterns they had created on her skin looked like frightening ritualistic tattoos. Merrill raised the hood of her cloak and the shadow combined with the darkness of the makeup Fenris had applied shrouded her face, causing it to appear as though her eyes glowed from total blackness. Though they’d never seen a blood mage like this, it was certainly a legitimate representation of what a group of naive onlookers would think one looked like.

“Yep - you look like a scary maleficar,” Anders assured, “I mean, like a _different_ scary maleficar.”

Merrill rolled her eyes, shoving her servants garb under the bench and out of site. She really did not look the same at all, there was no chance of her being recognized as a companion of the Champion.

“One more door to get us through, Broody. Ready?” Anders asked, and though the elf glared, he nodded and the three continued toward their destination.


	9. Chapter 9

“We really are going the long way around, aren’t we?” Anders asked, indicating a doorway as they passed by. Fenris recalled from the maps that the door led to a vestibule leading directly back into the main ballroom.

“We had to go this way so I can get both you and Merrill in. It’s our only chance at making plan A work.”

“Oh, cute. Ninety percent of this is preparation for plan B, you really think we'll get away with plan A?”

“It hinges on you, mage, so don’t screw it up,” Fenris said, then added, “Wouldn’t it be nice to just walk right back the way we came? I’m holding out for plan A.”

“Are you being… optimistic?” Anders asked incredulously.

“This is it,” Fenris announced as they turned a corner.

“I don’t know how you keep track of where you are in here, it’s just a labyrinth of stone walls,” Anders said, “Although - whoa, ok, yes this is right.”

The trio looked very disturbed suddenly as they approached the wall they all now knew to be correct. Fenris was feeling it strongly, so he knew the two mages must be able to sense it as well. It was an unsettling feeling, similar to when the veil was thin around a particular area, but more like something was pulling at the veil, _trying_ to thin it. Disturbing.

Fenris pressed his hands against the wall. Passing through the dozen or so barred doors since the kitchens, he’d been able to summon some long held anger reserves in order to access his ability. Calling on the same incidents over and over again seemed to dilute them, however. He wasn’t sure if it was emotional drain or if it had been a therapeutic process, allowing him to let go of some of the negative emotions surrounding the events.

“Can I help again?” Merrill asked, “Although, I can’t really seem to keep track of the things that make you angry. It’s like, sometimes things that irritate me to no end don’t seem to bother you at all, and other times, the smallest of things will send you into a rage.”

“If you’re trying to make me mad by being useless, then it’s starting to work.”

“Useless!” Merrill squeaked indignantly, “I’m putting my life on the line for this- “

“ _If_ we go with plan B,” Anders clarified softly, but was ignored.

“And I’m not? What do you think happens if I don’t make it through the bloody wall fast enough?” Fenris growled.

“Well, would it make you mad enough _to phase_?” she retorted childishly. Anders did a poor job of stifling a laugh, which annoyed Fenris more than angered him, and he glared at the mage before looking back toward the wall to try and focus.

He was going to have to start digging deeper to incite additional rage. His first thought was Anders, of course. Though they’d… somewhat… come to terms, he still felt like the man was a threat. Hawke seemed more enamored with Fenris than ever, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that part of her belonged to another. A year ago, something like that would have thrown him into an uncontrollable rage, but now it just broke his heart. Which made him a little proud, but was currently regrettable. He set his forehead on the cool stone of the wall dolefully.

“Can I help?” Anders asked, “I mean… I feel like I can help, if you promise not to hold it against me.”

Fenris did nothing for a few long moments. Eventually he turned and leveled a look at the man who was standing expectantly, holding his fingers together lightly as if about to drum them manically.

“Give it your best shot,” Fenris sighed.

Anders took a breath in, as if having prepared for this very moment, “Ok. So… Hawke looks ravishing tonight, don’t you think? I wonder what she and Sebastian are up to right now - “

“You had me at ravishing,” Fenris growled, then punched the wall, his hand and arm cleaving straight through. The way Hawke had looked in that gown had _beyond_ taken him off guard. He had never thought of extravagant dresses and fancy hair as appealing until he’d seen it presented so convincingly by the woman he loved. He had already thought she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen the moment he first saw her in the alienage so many years ago, bruised and bleeding, sweat matting her hair to her forehead, an annoyed, angry scowl on her face. So it had been a challenge to see her this way now, to allow her to be in Sebastian’s arms all evening, while he stood by and attempted to not kill him. Even the consideration of Anders having thought about it in a similar manner made him want to strangle the man. He was pleased to know he hadn’t changed _too_ much.

“See you on the other side,” he announced, then leapt though the wall and into the artifact room. At first, his glowing blue lyrium tattoos were the only source of light in the room. He found a lantern, and as he approached it a cold green magical flame burst to life within it, setting off a series of lanterns all around the room. The swaths of resulting light revealed shelves lining every inch of open wall space, stuffed with books, trinkets, orbs, statues and oddities of all kinds. Most Fenris could recognize as Elven, ancient or otherwise, some Tevinter in origin. Some items were clearly magical, some ornate and decorative, and some defied description entirely. In the empty space in the middle of the room, four pedestals stood, each holding a single artifact. He saw the one they’d come for, a large tome as long as his entire arm and half as wide.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Fenris froze. It came again, light and fast. He wondered why in the name of the Void someone would _be knocking_. After a few moments of contemplation, and a few more impatient knocks, he stepped up to the door, unlatching it slowly and quietly. He pushed the door open a hair and saw Merrill’s big eye peering in from the other side.

“We have a problem,” she said quietly, her voice muffled through the door, which Fenris then pushed open the rest of the way. Anders was standing a few feet behind her looking pleased.

“No guard,” the man said pleasantly.

“No guard…” Fenris repeated, stepping out into the room to have a look around, “ _Son of a…_ ”

“I really could have just walked right in through these doors,” Anders said cheerily, motioning to the set of doors behind him as if displaying wares for sale. He then added, “Not that I don’t enjoy spending quality time with you guys.”

“Remind me to kill Varric later,” Fenris grumbled. Now he was certainly angry enough to walk through walls.

“What are we going to do?” Merrill asked.

“Let’s talk inside,” Fenris suggested, allowing the other two to pass by him and into the artifact room, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Justice hates the shit out of this place, in case you guys were curious,” Anders announced.

“Yes, please keep us up to date on how angry your abomination is, thank you,” Fenris replied.

“Aw, you called _him_ the abomination instead of me. We really are friends aren’t we?” Anders quipped sweetly.

“Guys!” Merrill begged, worry creasing her brow.

Fenris leveled a glare at Anders, but got back on topic, “Do you think we can still trust the guard change timing or locations?”

“Not in particular,” Anders agreed, “This would be the third offense on that front.”

“If we went slowly and carefully back through, we might be able to make it unnoticed,” Merrill said optimistically.

“ _Might_ ,” Anders said as if not liking the odds, “We were lucky to make it through _once_ unnoticed.”

“I don’t suppose we’d be able to walk right out through the ballroom with it?” Merrill asked, less optimistic this time. Fenris shook his head, eyeing the relative enormity of the tome. He knew Anders was right, but they had no plan for this, no third scenario under which they could escape unnoticed without knowing where the guards would be and when. He sighed, contemplating their options.

Plan A had been sound, and safe. Anders acts like a drunk fool, which shouldn’t have been difficult for him, who accidentally stumbled into the room where the guard was standing watch, as if he’d wandered in from the ballroom. He dispels the wards from the doorway to the artifact room while Fenris opens the physical door from the inside for Merrill, who sneaks around while the guard is distracted by Anders. Merrill dispels the wards around the book, grabs it, and sneaks back out. Fenris locks the door behind her, then exits out the back wall, leaving no evidence of a break-in. Anders gets escorted back into the ballroom, and the two elves escape back out the way they came, safe in knowing the locations and timing of the rotating guard.

But that’d clearly all went to the Void. He should have known something was wrong the first two times they’d encountered guards where they shouldn’t have been, and now no guard where one certainly should have been. Plan B was dangerous, but more of a guarantee that they’d get out with the book. Plan B didn’t exactly cover the current situation, but it would have to work.

Anders spoke aloud what Fenris was thinking, “Plan B and a half?”


	10. Chapter 10

Hawke had gravitated toward the doorway she knew led to the artifact room, as if she could hope to sense something about what was going on simply by being nearby. After a somewhat long dance session, she and Sebastian had been forced to endure more crushing small talk. Hawke had been surprised, if not pleased, to see Anders’s date hanging onto a tall, dashingly handsome new man, and the pair had since disappeared. At least she wouldn’t be around to question where Anders had been for the last hour.

Currently, Sebastian was forcing food down her, claiming she should try and ‘sop up’ some of the wine. She wasn’t _drunk_ , for Maker’s sake. These people were just so insufferable.

There was a sudden commotion as she turned to see someone burst through the doorway nearby. Hawke had to do a double take, the elf was almost unrecognizable, enormous tome in tow. Merrill gaped into the ballroom with half-feigned shock, as if she’d had no idea there’d be a throng of people on the other side of the doorway.

Hawke saw Anders appear through another doorway farther down the wall. He dashed up to a table nearby, though the other onlookers were likely too distracted by Merrill to have noticed. He leaned casually against the wall, sipping a glass of wine as if he’d been there the whole time. Hawke gave him an uncertain look, then turned her confusion back to Merrill, who gasped and ran back through the doorway and toward the artifact room.

“She’s stolen something!” Anders yelled suddenly, and gasps of shock went up throughout the ballroom. Hawke groaned, this was definitely not part of either plan. At this point, she would just have to roll with it.

Hawke dashed through the doorway after Merrill, with Sebastian and Anders close behind. The elf had crossed through a vestibule and into the adjoining room which acted as a foyer to the artifact room. She now stood in front of one of many sets of windows that lined the opposite wall - a dead end. Hawke gave her a questioning look, and Merrill looked apologetic briefly before contorting her face into an evil grimace. A menagerie of nobility dashed in behind Hawke, and she heard a medley of comments rise up amongst the onlookers, “A mage!” “It’s an apostate!” “Oh my!” “A maleficar!”

Hawke tried to quickly take in the scenario her companions had set up, realizing it was just a bastardized version of plan B. She could work with this. Just as Hawke was thinking Merrill looked a little silly carrying the enormous, heavy tome that was half her height in length, the elf tossed the book to the ground with a loud thump, revealing a dark, purple aura glowing out from within it.

“Stay back!” Merrill yelled, taking her quarterstaff in both hands and thrusting it outward, pointing it threateningly at the crowd that had gathered. Many of the onlookers fled back into the ballroom, but some remained, gaping dramatically, clustering together tighter, as if it would somehow protect them. With disgust, Hawke realized one woman fainted. She noticed Lord Maeston among the remaining onlookers, a step in front of his guests, standing in line with her and Sebastian. Anders had made his way inside the room, also standing near the front of the crowd, but off to the side.

“Call the guard!” Hawke announced generally, though if they were still at least somewhat on-plan, either Varric or Fenris should already be on their way to alert Donnic.

Suddenly, Merrill cast something dark and forked out of the end of her staff and toward Hawke. Though she knew it harmless, a trick of light and air, she reacted on instinct, ducking and rolling away. She was surprised at her own agility despite the tightness of the corset, but less than pleased by the lash of pain that accompanied it. As she rolled up and out of the maneuver, she slid the sword out of a gaping guardsman’s belt, flourishing it toward Merrill menacingly.

Onlookers gasped at the deft action and Hawke found herself surprised at how many had remained to watch the confrontation. However, after having spent more than a single moment with these people, she knew why. Despite threat of death, they would stay because of the boasting rights being present would surely grant them. She figured she might as well give them a show.

Hawke quickly slipped out of her vile shoes, then dashed toward Merrill, who put up a quick magical shield of air, deflecting Hawke’s blade to one side as she struck down toward her. They’d sparred together enough over the last few months that they’d both felt comfortable not practicing this part of plan B. They knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses well, and a careful, but unchoreographed fight would look more realistic, even to an untrained eye.

Merrill spun her staff toward Hawke, who raised her sword to parry the attack, then shoved away, spinning and swinging toward Merrill’s open flank. The mage cast a quick, violet swirling ball toward the blade of the sword, pushing it down and away from her, taking Hawke’s grip with it. She almost stumbled as she unknowingly resisted the abrupt pull. Merrill spun the staff in one hand, striking toward Hawke’s head with the heavy, carved top.

Hawke ducked the swing, causing the force of the anticipated impact to throw Merrill off balance. In an actual fight, that would have been all the opening Hawke would have needed to end it, slicing cleaning through Merrill’s now exposed midsection. Instead, she pushed away to spin back and out of the reach of Merrill’s staff, as if to recover and regain her balance.

Suddenly, Donnic entered, followed closely by another guardsman Hawke didn’t recognize. Merrill conjured and cast a bolt of magic in Donnic’s direction. The guardsman didn’t miss a beat, he took the ‘spell’ in his leg, falling hard to one knee and grabbing it in faux pain.

“Subdue her!” Donnic yelled. His partner hesitated briefly, then went to step forward. Hawke and Sebastian had beat him to it, however, having snuck behind Merrill while she was distracted by the guardsmen. Sebastian disarmed the elf as Hawke grabbed hold of her, pinning her back to her chest with one arm across her neck, the other weaved between her elbows and back so she couldn’t escape her grasp. Merrill thrashed around a bit, looking like she was struggling to let a spell loose. Mages of course didn’t need their hands free in order to be dangerous, but Hawke was fairly certain no one in this lot would know any better.

“Thank you, Champion,” Donnic said, looking pained as he regained his footing, “We’ll see she’s properly taken care of, Lord Maeston.” Donnic stepped toward them, unhooking a set of metal cuffs from around his belt.

Donnic’s partner spoke up suddenly, “Ser, she’s clearly an apostate. Should we not summon the templars?”

Hawke froze and Donnic showed his first sign of wavering as his eyes grew wider. Now, why had they not thought of that? It had seemed so simple when they’d planned it, just have the guards come take her away. Now it seemed glaringly, painfully obvious. Why would they _not_ summon the templars?

Donnic recovered quickly, “We can see her taken to them, straightaway.”

“The Champion barely has the knife-ear restrained, what makes you think we’ll make it five feet with her?” he argued, Hawke tried not to glare at the man for his gruff use of the racial slur. Donnic looked to Hawke pleadingly, as if he wished she would just shout across the room what the best course of action was. It was all Hawke could do to not just shrug at the guardsman, who looked on, at once apologetic and panicked. Merrill was doing an equally poor job of hiding her shock, though it supplied her ruse with some authenticity.

Hawke knew she’d have to act fast in order to maintain control over the situation. She had studied the estate and grounds maps long and hard, all she could do now was trust her sense of direction. She quickly calculated the number of stairs she’d both climbed and descended in order to reach their current height, and prayed she remembered correctly.

Hawke cried out in faux pain, throwing Merrill away from her and into Sebastian as if the mage had somehow brutally attacked her. Sebastian, genuinely confused, caught Merrill awkwardly, stumbling backward and closer to the window behind him.

She held her hands to her torso in pain, lifting them as if to check underneath for how badly she was bleeding. As she did, she turned to look Anders in the eye, it was all the hint she could afford to give. She looked back up to Sebastian, who somehow, by the mercy of Andraste herself, seemed to understand what she was trying to accomplish.

“Maker, no!” he yelled suddenly, then fell to the ground, grabbing at his chest dramatically, thrashing and convulsing about on the floor, as if the mage had inflicted some kind of vicious spell upon him. Merrill just stood there, gaping down at Sebastian. 

“Fiend!” Hawke yelled, directing her ire at Merrill. She hiked up the skirt of her dress, took a step to spin into the kick, then beseeched the Maker. She felt the familiar resistance of magical cushioning before her foot came into full contact with Merrill’s chest. She was grateful Anders had understood, though it may have just been his instinct, or even Merrill’s for that matter. It didn’t slow the impact, but acted as padding so she wouldn’t break the poor elf’s sternum. Hawke tried to mask her guilt as she caught Merrill’s eyes gape open in fright as she flew away from her and out the window behind her.

The glass broke just a half breath too early, flying outward and away just slightly too far. Hawke could only tell because she knew of the involvement of magic, to the nearby onlookers it would have looked completely natural. The elf disappeared below the ledge of the window, and Hawke grimaced as her still aching torso cried out in reaction to her movements. She cursed her outfit yet again as the crowd scurried forward and looked out the window.

“She’s gone!” one of them yelled, and Hawke hoped the relief on her face wasn’t too obvious.

“The fountain, she landed in the fountain below!” a woman chimed in.

“There must be footprints, follow the foot prints!” another yelled. Hawke’s heart skipped a beat and she turned to give Donnic a pointed look, but the man had already dashed back toward the exit, his lackey in tow.

“We’ll pursue on foot!” he yelled as he disappeared back into the ballroom. Hawke caught a glimpse of Anders, who had stepped up to an unbroken window a few meters down along with a handful of nobles.

“There aren’t any footprints, she’s disappeared!” someone managed to yell above the din of shock and amazement that started rising as even more guests entered from the ballroom now that the danger had appeared to subside. Anders looked up to meet Hawke’s eye, and though it wasn’t a significant look, she knew it meant that he’d managed to cover Merrill’s escape. It was all she could do not to award him a grateful hug, or at least a high-five. Additional guests trickled toward the windows, peering out and recounting the tale in hushed, scandalized remarks.

“What is it with this bloody tome?” Hawke heard Lord Maeston say almost under his breath. She turned to find him standing near the book, looking down on it as evil-looking tendrils of harmless magical energy spun around it.

“What do you mean, Lord Maeston?” Hawke asked, stepping toward him.

“It was stolen once before,” he said.

“Really? But you recovered it? Who stole it?” she asked, thinking it a believable train of thought for the Champion, but also genuinely intrigued. If the tome contained the kind of information they thought it did, anyone who had previous access to it could be involved in the scheme they’d hoped to uncover.

“We don’t know,” he said, looking up to meet her eye, “It just returned one day. Right back on its pedestal, as if it’d never moved an inch.”

Hawke didn’t have to feign her reaction as her brow creased in speculation.

“I’ve had security increased since then - some of these artifacts we’ve collected are very dangerous,” he said, giving the tome an apprehensive look again.

“Careful, my Lord,” Sebastian said as he limped toward them, “It looks like the witch may have cursed it.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” he said concernedly.

“My companions and I will do our best to track your thief, Lord Maeston,” Hawke said.

He looked at her, somewhat surprised, “Thank you Champion. Though, I suppose it’s not strictly necessary, she didn’t make it away with anything.”

“She may try again,” Sebastian pointed out.

“That’s true,” Lord Maeston said contemplatively, “If you’re able to track her, I would be most appreciative. I know how valuable your time is, so please don’t make it a priority. I’ll triple my guard for the time being.”

“The curse on the tome still holds,” Hawke added, “If you’d like, I’d be happy to take it to First Enchanter Orsino and see about having the curse lifted.”

Lord Maeston did a poor job of hiding his trepidation, then said, “The origins of the tome are… quite unique. The First Enchanter may see reason to have it confiscated.”

Hawke gave him a small but knowing grin, “I am _positive_ the First Enchanter would look the other way.”

“Oh yes,” he nodded gratefully, “For you, I suppose that’s true.”

“That being said, if the curse isn’t able to be lifted, we may need to have it destroyed,” Hawke said. Lord Maeston looked disappointed, but ultimately accepting.

“Of course Champion,” he said gratefully, “How can I begin to thank you?”

“It’s no trouble,” she said. She felt a pang of guilt suddenly as she realized exactly what it was they’d just done. They’d used Kirkwall’s expectation of what she was against them. They’d distracted them with the spectacle of the Champion so they could steal something right in front of them - so they could literally walk out with the bloody thing, with the lord’s consent and blessing.

The man seemed amiable enough, could they have simply asked Lord Maeston to have a look at it? She sighed to herself, knowing it wouldn’t have been that simple. He would have had questions, or at least would have required a favor in order to look the other way. The last thing Hawke wanted was to owe any of these people anything.

“You have done Kirkwall more than your fair share of service in the past, you must allow me to reward you in some way,” he said, and before Hawke could respectfully decline, he announced, “I’ll throw a feast, in your honor!”

The other nobles around the room gasped with delight. She cursed the Maker, then Andraste, then the Maker again, knowing this was her punishment for kicking Merrill out a window.


	11. Chapter 11

_He swung his leg high, aiming the kick toward her chest. She easily ducked under it, spinning out with one leg to knock him off the foot he now balanced on. He hit the ground hard and she moved in to deliver a vicious strike to the face. He caught her wrist as she swung, using the momentum to swipe her off her feet, then rolled over her, pinning her still clamped wrist to the ground and grasping for the other as he straddled her._

_She was able to use her free fist to strike him in the jaw, throwing him off balance enough that he was forced to release her other wrist. She grabbed both sides of his neck with her hands and rolled him over, but as they spun, he grabbed her by the waist, throwing her body out and away from him. She spun across the dirt floor, using the roll to deftly spring back up and into a readied position._

_He stood as she charged, opening up to one side as she struck forward with her closed fist, then clamped his arm down around hers, locking it between his elbow and chest. He spun her around toward the wall until he had both her arms locked behind her back. She kicked against the jagged stone, pushing back against him. He resisted, trying to hold her in place. She used his stability against him, climbing the wall with her feet, forcing his grip to loosen as his arms rose and she flipped up and behind him, so that he was now between her and the wall. She went to strike him in the lower back, but he deftly spun, using the momentum to grab her by the waist, spinning and thrusting her up and into the wall. Everything froze. His hardened grimace softened, and he looked up at her as he held her in place against the stone. She didn’t struggle, just watched his eyes warm as a bead of sweat rolled down his brow. He planted his hands against the wall, letting her slide down until he could reach her, until his lips could find hers, locking them in a fierce embrace._

 

Hawke woke with a start. Her heart raced beyond reason. She took a breath, petitioning its relentless beating to slow. After a few long moments it assented, settling back down into what felt like a more common baseline for panic.

She had never had a dream like this before. It wasn’t symbolic or cryptic, it wasn’t far-fetched or unrealistic, with jumps in space and time that made very little sense or had no clear purpose. It was tangible, gritty, and intense. She’d sparred him just like that so many times, and though it had clearly never ended that way, it felt very real to her now. It felt like it so easily _could_ have happened, even though she knew it wouldn’t. She had to spend a few minutes convincing herself of the reality of her world. She was with Fenris - not Anders. Right?

She sat up, taking in the scene around her. With her eyes open, it was easier to remember. Not just because of the elf’s armor piled in the corner, or evidence of the previous night’s wine consumption on the night stand, but as if a haze had been lifted. Now instead of feeling like a potent memory it only felt like it’d been a dream, however realistic.

The sheets of her bed were disheveled, she’d clearly been tossing and turning. Fenris was nowhere to be found, though not an uncommon occurrence. The elf seemed to need far less sleep than she even in normal circumstances, nevertheless when she was additionally fatigued from an injury.

She climbed out of bed, washing her face quickly before delightedly kicking aside her dress from the previous night as she opened her wardrobe to find something more agreeable to wear. She’d never wanted out of a piece of clothing so badly, and Fenris had been eager enough to assist.

She blushed with the recollection, but the moment was tainted with a flurry of guilt accompanying memories of her dream of Anders. She tried to put the clarity of it out of her mind. She couldn’t help but wonder the reason for it. She’d hardly even seen Anders the night before, and hadn’t fought him, or anyone, since she’d procured the broken ribs.

Her thoughts were welcomely interrupted by a soft knock at the door, one Hawke recognized as Orana, though this was mostly because her companions generally just didn’t bother to knock at all.

“Come in,” she called, pulling on a pair of narrow trousers. The slight elf poked her head in, nodding it in deference before stepping the rest of the way inside. It had taken the better part of a year for Hawke to get the woman to stop giving her a full curtsy every time she laid eyes on her. The once-slave held an intense gratitude toward her for having offered her a wage and residence at the Hawke estate after they’d freed her from Fenris’s former master’s apprentice, Hadriana. At first, the servant’s presence seemed to anger Fenris, likely a painful reminder of what he’d been through. Over time however, the two had grown agreeable, and Fenris no longer scowled at the very site of her.

“Messere, Lord Varric has arrived. He’s in the dining room with the others. Would you like a bath drawn?” she asked politely.

“Maybe later, thanks Or,” Hawke replied, smiling at the woman and pulling a tunic over her head as she passed by to head downstairs.

Varric was standing at the table next to Merrill as Hawke entered the dining room. Sebastian sat across from them on the other side, hair rumpled in a charming manner. Hawke passed by to sit next to the archer. He handed Hawke a chunk of bread he’d already buttered, and she accepted graciously, trying not to seem too ravenous as she began to devour it.

Merrill and Sebastian had stayed over the previous night after a long discussion about what to do with the tome, a step they had never managed to discuss in all their preparations. They’d eventually settled on locking it in Hawke’s cellar. Years ago, thinking it safer for her mother, Hawke had sealed off the lower entrance that had once led to Darktown, so there was only one way in or out of the cellar. The door was made of a very thick, dense wood, reinforced by bands of steel and multiple, impressive locks. She’d been given grief many times by Varric about how dearly she must hold her wine to have that kind of protection for it. The door had always been that way, and Varric knew it, but Hawke was grateful for its presence now, however strange.

They told themselves they needed to put it there for its protection - so it couldn’t be stolen away from them by anyone somehow privy to their studies of the Belhim’irsa. They all knew the truth of it however - it was for _their own_ protection. The artifact made them all uneasy, particularly the mages and Fenris. In the off-chance something evil would decide to jump out of it, at least it'd be contained to Hawke's cellar and not free to bust through Merrill's shanty door and wreak havoc through the alienage. It would also keep Merrill close to Hawke while she translated it, for the mage’s protection of course, but also to satiate Hawke’s curiosity. She wanted to know the moment Merrill found out anything helpful about this cult of maleficarum.

“Did Fenris go to get breakfast?” Merrill asked.

“He’s back,” Hawke said, grabbing up another chunk of bread and lavishing it with butter. Merrill creased her brow at her uncertainly. Hawke offered the bread out toward Merrill, who just shook her head and leaned back.

“Is Aveline coming?” Hawke asked.

“She’s going to try and swing by before first shift,” Sebastian answered. Fenris entered, a small sack of bread and fruit slung over his shoulder. He emptied the stash onto the table before heading back toward the kitchen, kissing Hawke’s forehead gently as he passed by. Hawke eyed Merrill questioningly as the mage sunk into her cowl like a bashful turtle.

Hawke was drawn away from the elf’s strangeness however, when she caught Varric’s expression for the first time. She responded by raising an eyebrow at him dubiously. She knew he’d come to give everyone an account of the fallout from the previous evening’s events, but the dwarf looked far, far too pleased.

“You’re too happy. Explain,” Hawke demanded, but it only caused him to grin wider.

“Dwarf…” she growled.

“Ok, ok,” he said, his smile growing even more, “I was going to wait until everyone was here, but it’s _amazing_ news.”

Hawke settled back in her chair with a third piece of bread. Gauging by the dwarf’s excitement, this was going to be interesting.

“Apparently you and Sebastian attending the ball together has created a rumor that you’re, get this, _together_ ,” he said salaciously, “You two are literally all the town can talk about. From Hightown right on down to Lowtown - it’s all I’ve heard since waking up this morning.”

Hawke buried her face in her hands as Varric began to list the numerous and varied accounts of the tale. The highlights for Hawke were how heroic it was when she ‘saved Sebastian’ by kicking that filthy mage right out the window, and how seasoned and regal the two had looked on the dance floor. She looked to Sebastian, who appeared a bit scandalized. Fenris entered back into the room from the kitchen with a pitcher, pouring the contents into mugs. Hawke found herself hoping it was wine. Though Fenris had likely heard everything the dwarf had said, his expression didn’t give away his thoughts on the matter as he passed the mugs down the table.

“Don’t worry, Hawke, they’re all on your side,” Varric added, and she returned her gaze to him.

“My _side_?” she asked.

“Oh did I fail to mention the best part?” he laughed ardently, because obviously, he had failed to mention the best part, “Since Chantry boy here is a brother who can’t marry - they all think he’s stringing you along, flashing his princely-ness around to woo you. I’d watch your back out there till things die down, Choir Boy.”

Though appallingly sexist, Hawke had to admit, it was just a little bit funny. Sebastian, however, looked like he was going to die of humiliation.

“Aw come on, I’m woo-worthy,” she said hearteningly, and he smiled appreciatively, though he still looked like he was going to go dig a hole to climb in and die. Hawke’s face flushed as Anders stepped through the door. She had done a pretty good job of forgetting about her dream, but seeing him brought it back in a flood of guilty memories.

“Have you guys heard?” he asked excitedly, as if about to announce the second coming of Andraste. Sebastian sighed and Hawke stifled her giggle for the prince’s sake. Varric turned to Anders and the two started to compare notes on the various rumors they’d heard.

“I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that you doing something in public wouldn’t become the talk of the town,” Sebastian said, turning to Hawke.

“I would have argued that point before,” she said, leaning back casually into her chair, “I would have said, ‘No Sebastian, certainly these people have better things to do than gossip over someone like me.’ But now… now I know. Now, I get it. They all keep _very_ busy - plotting and scheming, taking detailed notes, collecting gossip and rumors, then crafting subtle… or _not_ subtle, ways to undermine one another.”

“Ahh, the grand game,” Sebastian sighed casually, as if it was everyday terminology. She was about to question him on it when Aveline came storming through the door, beelining straight for Merrill.

“Are you ok?” she demanded, “Donnic told me what happened - I am _so sorry_.”

“It’s not your fault Aveline-“ Merrill started, but was cut off as the warrior squeezed her into a hug, full plate armor and all.

“And you,” Aveline said, directing her ire toward Hawke. The guard captain stood up, all but dropping Merrill as the elf was towed up along with her momentarily, “Could you really not have thought of something else than to kick the poor girl out a window?”

“Hey!” Hawke grumbled defensively through a mouthful of bread, “It’s not my fault - he was about to call the templars. Why’d you put some random guard on with Don anyway?”

“I didn’t,” she replied haughtily, “I assigned Brennan, but she apparently ate some bad fish at The Blooming Rose, and Donnic was too scared to let the replacement in on the plan.”

Then she changed her tone, adding casually, “Probably good he didn’t, he’s a bit of a prig.”

“Who eats fish from The Blooming Rose?” Anders asked, grimacing in disgust.

“Come on, Merrill - you aren’t still upset with me, right?” Hawke implored. She had begged the elf’s forgiveness repeatedly after they’d returned to Hawke’s estate the previous night. After Fenris had so graciously helped her out of her dress, Hawke had helped Merrill clean up, burning her outfit and staff in the fireplace, then spending hours helping her scrub the black dye off her skin. Though she’d never really seemed upset with Hawke, the elf had been acting strangely, and she hoped she wasn’t still holding it against her.

“I mean,” Merrill said meekly, “You did kick me out the window.”

“I’m sorry, you know I am. But truthfully, would you be more or less angry with me right now if you were locked in the Gallows?”

“She makes a point,” Merrill said, looking up to Aveline. The guard captain seemed contented, though begrudgingly so, then pulled out a chair to sit down on the other side of Merrill.

“Ok, everyone,” Varric started, taking a drink from his mug, then grimacing and handing it back to Fenris. Must not be wine, Hawke thought regrettably. He led a quick run down of the previous nights events, mostly for Aveline’s sake, but also to inform Hawke and Sebastian of what the others had been up to while they were separated. He also gave an explanation for the erroneous guard schedule - apparently, Piper could have sworn it was a Tuesday. Hawke groaned and set her head on the table as she continued to gnaw on a piece of bread.

“What about the guard that was supposed to be outside of the artifact room? I thought they never kept it unguarded,” Anders asked.

“He would have been there - had he not had a previous rotation in the ballroom. Where I drugged him,” he said, smiling.

“So we could have avoided the majority of the shenanigans we went through, had we only known the true guard rotation?” Fenris clarified.

“Where’s the fun in that? All things considered, we made it through relatively unscathed. Except for you, Daisy. Sorry,” Varric said. Merrill just shrugged amenably, then announced the plan for keeping the book in Hawke’s cellar, giving a rough three to four week timeline for completion of the translation. She seemed a bit panicky however when Hawke announced that Merrill would be staying there during that time, and they’d need to try and take shifts keeping watch over her so she wouldn’t have to be alone while interacting with the tome.

After they wrapped up, Aveline went on her way to the Viscount’s Keep, leaving the others to mill about picking at the remains of food. Fenris walked past Hawke as if to fill the pitcher again, but she grabbed him, insisting he sit down for some breakfast. He consented, but after only a few bites, she was leaning into him, and they were both chuckling as they recounted moments from the night before and lavished one another with affection.

“My cue to go,” Varric announced, “Good luck with the translation Daisy, try not to let the book eat you.” Hawke gave him a multilayered disapproving look as the dwarf disappeared out the door.

“I’m a little afraid to go outside,” Sebastian said despondently.

“I’ll protect you,” Anders laughed, standing along with the prince and turning to follow him out.

“Does this make me your ‘honor guard’?” Anders asked excitedly as the two disappeared out the door. Hawke turned to Merrill who sat frozen awkwardly in her chair.

“I’ll get to it then!” she said suddenly, standing up quickly so her chair trailed loudly across the stone floor.

“Ok,” Hawke said, standing along with Fenris, “I’ll take first shift.“

“No, it’s really not necessary,” Merrill replied quickly, “I mean you guys will be… just _right_ up here if I need you.”

“I’ll do it, love,” Fenris said, completely ignoring Merrill’s protests right along with Hawke, “You get some more rest, I think Aveline is serious about starting up training again soon.”

Hawke nodded appreciatively, letting him kiss her cheek lightly before he followed the sulky mage out to the cellar door. She sat back down, and after a few agonizing seconds of contemplation, she decided on having just one more piece of bread. Hawke was glad Merrill had seemed as anxious as she was to start the translation. It was going to be a long ‘three to four weeks’.


	12. Chapter 12

Anders grimaced as Hawke struck Fenris brutally in the jaw with her fist. Blood sprayed from the corner of his mouth as his neck whipped back from the impact, but he didn’t falter, quickly retaliating with an uppercut to Hawke’s flank. Seemingly unaffected, she grabbed hold of the elf’s arm with both of hers, holding him in place while she thrust her knee into his stomach, causing him to stumble back and away from her. She had not been holding back at all since the start of the session. Any vigor she may have lacked in Anders’s last encounter with her, she now made up in spades as she and Fenris exchanged vicious blows in the sparring ring.

One week had passed since they’d successfully absconded with the ancient tome, and all had been quiet save Justice, who had seemed to take Anders’s return to daily life as an affront to the spirit’s very nature. He had been fighting his way to the forefront of his thoughts constantly, insisting on knowing why Anders had yet to decide one way or another about joining the excursion, or how Justice liked to see it, why he didn’t just tell Hawke he was going already.

Merrill had been locked in Hawke’s cellar, though not _literally_ , it almost seemed so as the elf had only left to attend to the most base of needs. She had even convinced Bodahn to start bringing her meals down to her, which had caused an incensed Hawke to march down and drag her upstairs by the scruff of her shirt, throwing her in a chair in the dining room and forcing her to eat with them. Though Hawke clearly wanted the translation done as quickly as possible, she did not seem keen to let Merrill wither away down there. She had even insisted the mage come to today’s training session, though she had yet to arrive. Since the others were all present, and thus no one was there to watch over her, per Hawke’s decree, Anders knew she was likely getting some much needed sleep.

Anders had been spacing off, not listening as Aveline, Sebastian and Varric chatted around the table he sat atop, legs crossed underneath him. He caught what seemed to be the middle of their conversation.

“If the marks are all rogue maleficarum, shouldn’t we go to the templars with it?” Sebastian asked.

“They are trained for it after all,” Varric seemed to assent.

“I hope you’re kidding,” Anders said dubiously, looking toward them.

“Avoiding Kirkwall’s templars might be in our best interest,” Aveline said, seeming to agree, but not in a way that made Anders feel any better.

“Avoiding _all_ templars would be in our best interest,” Anders said incredulously, feeling as though the others were not aware of his presence. Had they lost their minds?

“There will be no templars, Kirkwall or otherwise. Come on guys,” Hawke interjected suddenly, having made her way out of the sparring ring and toward the group. A strange smile pulled at her lips as she began unwrapping the thin, bloodied strips of cloth from her hands, used to support her wrists during their brawling sessions. He knew most of that blood was Fenris’s. Varric startled Anders by giving him a gruff pat on the back followed up with a winning smile, “We’re just screwing with you, Blondie.”

Anders nodded uncertainly as the four walked away toward the sparring ring. They were all trying to kill him, that was for certain.

 _Sometimes, mortals mask true grievances in the lightness of humor. You do it habitually_.

Justice was always so serious, he never could appreciate a good joke.

_Oh no? What did the nug say when it crossed the road?_

Anders patently refused to encourage that line of thought, instead focusing on fighting the petulant spirit back down. Fenris had finished rinsing the blood and sweat from his face and seemed to notice Anders’s internal struggle, crossing over to lean on the edge of the table next to him.

“You ok?” he asked, toweling off his wet hair and then slicking it back against his head. It had taken the full week, but the dark dye had almost entirely washed from his stark white locks.

“Oh yeah - you know, just those pesky inner demons,” Anders replied cheerily.

“You’re not being literal, I assume?”

“Actually, I’m being _quite_ literal,” Anders said, earning him a rare smile from the elf. He seemed to appreciate Anders’s acceptance of the spirit, whether or not he agreed with how it’d come to pass. Not, he knew, definitely _not_.

_See, you’re doing it again._

“Fenris,” Aveline called out from across the cavern, “Sebastian’s going to show you the bow.”

Fenris grumbled, clearly not looking forward to an archery lesson, but consented regardless and hopped off the table, slumping toward the prince. Aveline wasn’t going to be able to join them on their excursion, leaving her obligations to the Guard for so long would be too big a burden both for the unstable city and for her sense of duty. She had been making up for it in spades however, running most of their training sessions, teaching them sword, shield and group tactics, and organizing supply runs.

The guard captain crossed the cavern toward where Varric was now attempting to teach Hawke to load and fire a crossbow. Though Varric had supplied her with a weapon of her own to practice with, the warrior seemed quite enamored with Bianca. She earned herself a wrist slap each time she reached out toward it.

 _Her_. _Toward her._

Anders rolled his eyes. However, the mistake, even when made in his thoughts, still caused him to be wary of Varric’s retaliation. Varric threw his arms up in frustration as Aveline attempted to mediate, but the dwarf had already given up, strapping Bianca protectively to his back and marching away, crossing his arms resolutely, Hawke grinning after him in amusement. Aveline sighed, giving Hawke a pointed look, then picked up a wooden practice sword and shield to review stances with their puerile leader. Varric hopped up on the table next to Anders, grumbling a bit under his breath.

“Sometimes, I think she’s just using me for Bianca,” Varric sighed.

“You’re going along, right?” Anders asked.

“Definitely Blondie, can’t say no to adventure, stories and treasure!”

“Treasure?” Anders asked.

“Probably, right?” Varric asked, then his face fell as he realized it was entirely possible that there would be no treasure.

“Unless she hurts Bianca?” Anders clarified. He was unnerved as he looked over at the dwarf who had managed to unsheathe and begin petting Bianca lightly without Anders even noticing.

“Merrill, I’m so glad you’re here,” Aveline said suddenly as Merrill passed by the table to stand timidly next to Anders and Varric. Aveline scuttled toward her, then ushered the mage in and toward the sparring ring, “You haven’t had any time with hand-to-hand yet.”

Merrill looked terrified at the implication as Aveline snatched her staff away and left it on the table. The elf turned back toward Anders as if about to call out for help, reaching back toward the staff futilely as the guard captain drug her toward the center of the cavern.

“Fenris!” Aveline called, and the elf looked up earnestly, dropping the bow he had begun to mangle out of shape, all too happy to give up on something he clearly wasn’t about to master. He jogged over toward Merrill, his look turning trepidatious at the site of her, likely worried he’d hurt the mage.

Hawke abandoned her sparring against a makeshift dummy and headed back toward the table. She sat down on the table on the other side of Anders, curling her legs up underneath her chin as she settled in to watch what was probably the most unlikely pairing of the seven of them attempt a most compelling duel. From the corner of his eye, he saw her reaching behind him slowly, only to then see Varric turn and slap her hand away, causing her to giggle and Varric to growl. At least Anders wasn’t the only one getting picked on today.

Anders was surprised at the amount of fight Merrill had in her as the two began. At first, Aveline stopped them every few motions to make a note or correct her form, but it wasn’t long before Merrill had the hang of it, deflecting Fenris’s light jabs, getting used to the feel of connecting physically with an opponent. She recovered quickly when he was able to make contact, though he clearly wasn’t using all of his force against her.

“Do you want me to get you some snacks for the show?” Aveline asked them with exasperation as she crossed back toward them. Varric opened his mouth as if to respond, but the flat look the guard captain leveled at him seemed to eradicate any errant word that was about to slip out. She turned to Hawke and Anders.

“You two, let’s practice some shield work,” she said. Anders hopped off the table as Hawke grumbled, though she ultimately followed. The few times he’d seen Hawke spar with a shield, it had taken all of about three minutes for her to abandon the thing and proceed with just the sword. She seemed to find the shield too cumbersome and, as she’d once put it, ‘practical’. Sometimes she’d even take up a second sword in its stead. Though not her strongest fighting style, she had actually become quiet good at duel wielding despite being self-taught. Since it was a tactic none of them knew well, Anders found himself hoping she’d try it this time so he could test his own defenses against it.

As they began, Anders was quickly disappointed, but not in the way he had thought he would be, which was the painful, beaten, shown-up way. He was certainly able to test his defenses against her, but it proved too simple a task, as the passion and determination she’d shown with Fenris earlier had disappeared completely, as if engulfed by the Void itself. She was non-confrontational, side-stepping his attacks, parrying or rolling away, but not taking the opportunities to strike back or expose his weaknesses.

_You know why she does this._

He didn’t know, but he figured the spirit was going to tell him.

_She cares for you._

That made about as much sense as he expected it to.

_She shows favor toward you. Her method is a strange choice, but it is a choice. And despite this, you’ve chosen to disappoint her. She’s done so much for you over the years, and now she needs you, more than ever, and you choose to abandon her._

Anders figured it must be nice to know everything about the mortal experience simply by observing through the eyes of a human for a handful of years.

_Observing? Is that all the effect you think I’ve had on this world?_

As a matter of fact, it was. Anders knew he was just being spiteful now, but the spirit was being tiresome. He felt Justice suddenly pull at his arm, forcing him to swing wildly to one side. It was a testament to how poorly he managed a sword that Hawke and Aveline didn’t appear to notice anything out of the ordinary. He decided it best to not have an argument with the spirit in the middle of a training session, instead focusing on the advice Aveline had given on the use of martial weapons, things that still felt foreign in his hands.

At first, he’d thought it all a bit unnecessary. He was his own weapon, after all, for good or ill. However, the more he learned about martial skills, the more he saw deadly potential in the combination of the two. It was this strategy that he had tried for the first time a few weeks ago with Hawke, resulting in her battered and broken in the end. He’d given the credit to the combination of magic, martial force, and his successful attempt at pretending like it wasn’t Hawke he was fighting. But as he stood now, gaining easy strikes on her every few minutes and watching her recoil from opportunities to retaliate, he wondered if something else wasn’t going on.

Hawke endured it longer than normal, but she finally gave up, tossing the shield aside in frustration. She easily caught the hilt of a second wooden sword as Sebastian tossed it her way, he and a disgruntled Aveline watching on. Hawke flourished each, spinning them to get a feel for the new weight, then gave him a confident, if not grim, smile. She held the swords out toward him, then angled one high and the other low as she sidestepped slowly along with him, arcing around each other as if stalking prey.

He struck first, keeping his shield tight and sword high, hoping she’d leave her legs unprotected. She met his strike by crossing the two swords against each other, catching his weapon between them. She held his blade with the inner sword, then swung away with the other toward his flank. As he turned his focus to taking the impact with the wooden shield, she shoved away with the other weapon, sending his sword arm flying back and opening his chest to attack. She swung toward him, gaining a hit on his exposed chest.

He returned her impish smile as they stepped away from one another and reset their stances, crossing swords amenably to signal their readiness. Even though she’d just bested him, it was clear Hawke was holding back, it almost seemed like she was being careful. Her skills were just as sharp, however, just as strong. He could see the warrior mind churning within her, considering every tactic, every option. What kind of force it would take to gain a desired result, how a weapon could be utilized to strike, defend, or distract. It was more a mind game than most gave it credit for.

Anders struck first again, this time attempting a feint as he stepped in with his sword arm, then rolled away, keeping the shield between them as he spun, attempting a true strike to her back. Unsurprisingly she hadn’t fallen for it, and she’d already upended one blade over her head and behind her back to parry his blade. She kept it there to protect herself as she spun away, swinging the other sword toward him as she rotated. He raised the shield to block the attack, then lowered it toward her, using it like a ram to press forward into her. After retreating a few steps, she ducked and rolled away back past him and out of his line of sight.

The sudden lack of resistance caused him to stumble to his knees awkwardly. He thought she’d come back at his flank from his sword side, so he spun quickly with his shield thrusting it out and toward where he anticipated her next blade strike. She was much closer to him than he thought however, and instead he caught Hawke fully in the face with the shield, sending her sprawling away from him with surprising force. He gaped for a moment, confused by how he’d so grievously misjudged what was happening.

“Maker, Hawke, sorry,” he said regretfully, attempting to stand while trying to get a view of her as Sebastian and Aveline went toward her. Anders got back to his feet and jogged over as she sat up, assisted by Aveline. The wound had already swelled significantly and was outlined by a jagged scrape that ran the line of her cheekbone, from forehead to mouth. It was bleeding… kind of a lot, and Anders found himself attempting to sop some of it up with the cuffs of his shirt.

“Guys come on, I’m fine,” she insisted, trying to shoo them away as Anders helped her stand. Varric approached with a clean cloth, offering it to Anders and peaking at the wound.

“Ouch… looks nasty, boss,” the dwarf said. Anders tightened his jaw as he sopped up more of the blood, pressing firmly to staunch the flow. It being an accident made him no less angry with himself for causing her more pain.

“It’s nothing,” she excused, “You know facial wounds, they always bleed so dramatically.”

“I can heal it,” he said, lifting the bloody bundle to assess the damage, “Though it’ll leave a mark for a while.”

“I think a nice fresh, facial wound is exactly what you need to spruce up your dinner ensemble,” Aveline said, and Anders couldn’t tell if she was being facetious or just very optimistic. Then he sighed, he’d forgotten about the feast Lord Maeston was throwing to thank Hawke.

“Maker’s balls, Hawke, I’m sorry,” he said, loathing himself even more.

“Anders come on,” she smiled, “You really think I care about looking presentable to those people? Showing up with a scar the length of my face is actually kind of perfect.”

He walked to the table with her, letting her sit down on it before taking the bloody rags from the wound. Fenris appeared with a wet cloth, which Anders took gratefully and began to carefully clean the wound with it, the flow of blood having slowed some. He held his hands lightly to either side of her face, then closed his eyes. Not because he needed to in order to focus or concentrate, but because he couldn’t bear to stare at her hurt again, bruised and bleeding by his own hands.

He felt the comfortable flow of magical energy through him as he summoned it, beckoning it to do his bidding. He enticed it to flow along the paths he envisioned, the ones that flowed from his fingertips into Hawke, into her bloodstream, into her skin. Very little muscle damage, easy to repair. Then just to stitch the skin, allow it to regenerate itself, only quicker, to fill the void the wound had sliced. He opened his eyes, pleased to note how nicely it had closed. The familiar pink of new skin ran the length of her face, the bruising and swelling a side effect that would unfortunately last a few days regardless of what he did. He cleaned the remaining blood from her face with a fresh cloth.

“Good as new, plus a little character,” he smiled at her, and she returned it hearteningly as she hopped off the table. Fenris was beside her in an instant, holding her chin in one hand to look at the wound as if under inspection. He seemed contented, though he said nothing, looking on to the others as Hawke nuzzled into him.

Anders knew a normal reaction to seeing them like that would be to be jealous or upset, he did love the woman after all, and she was clearly beyond enamored with the elf. But somehow, whenever he saw them showing affection toward each other, he couldn’t help but feel pleased. He figured it had something to do with maturity, though he knew he couldn’t possibly have too much of that. He was glad to see her so contented, that they seemed such a good fit, and he was thankful that his two friends were happy together.

It was when he and Hawke were alone that it was hard for him, the errant touches, smiles, the brightening of her look when he told a joke. It was too easy for him to forget about Fenris in those moments, to remember a time before they were together when it didn’t make him feel guilty to have those feelings. That was what had made it hard, to try to not love her. Not to scoop her into his arms to kiss her, not to twirl her across the dance floor, not to protect her every minute of every day, even though she needed no such thing.

He wanted to be that man anyway, the man he imagined he would be if he was with her. The man that stayed by her side, stood up for the the weak and oppressed, protected innocents, even if he didn’t get to be the man that loved her and brought her comfort. None of that, he noted, included injuring her over and over again. He was off to a bad start.

 _You know how you_ could _help…_

The obnoxious spirit was relentless.


	13. Chapter 13

Two weeks had passed since they’d acquired the text and Fenris was starting to feel like he had taken on more than his fair share of Merrill-watching duties. Not that he had much else to do, but he’d like it if his companions would at least consider that he might.

He lazed on a cushioned lounge near the doorway that led upstairs, sipping wine from a bottle and half watching as Merrill leaned over the book dutifully, scribbling notes and talking to herself under her breath, or more often out loud. At first he found it obnoxious, the way she’d repeat one syllable over and over again, like she was chewing it around in her mouth to get a taste for it.

After what seemed countless hours however, he finally understood why. It was her way of piecing together words she didn’t recognize, attempting to gather meaning from the syllable’s use in other words that she did understand. Fenris was starting to understand some of it himself, a fact which inspired him to take a long, dutiful pull from the wine bottle.

Merrill had insisted on working by the light of only a couple candles, reasoning Fenris knew as justified as he had seen the mage knock over no less than a dozen of them. Only one had actually landed on her notes and caught them on fire. He’d smothered the flames with his cloak quickly, but only a moment before Merrill had been about to toss a glass of wine on it. Fenris had explained, in what he considered a gracious but stern tone, why dousing two weeks of work and the tome itself with dark acidic liquid might be a poor idea.

Since, the mage had insisted on only having two small candles to work by. This lead to a very striking view of her from the dark edge of the cellar Fenris now lounged in. If he squinted just enough and focused on the brightness of the parchment, it appeared as though she and the table were floating in a sea of black. He’d begun crafting a dramatic tale around it, a disgraced elf who had been fated to forever translate, no end, no escape.

He’d had too much wine.

“I’m no longer fit to see to your safety,” Fenris slurred, half stumbling as he stood up and the blood rushed to his head. Merrill gave him a questioning look but said nothing. As if on cue, Varric appeared.

“Here to relieve you, Messere Elf Captain,” Varric announced with garbled formality. He sounded no more fit than Fenris to keep watch, but he wasn’t about to argue. He’d been down here with the mage for, well, he hadn’t any idea how long, really. One lost all sense of time whilst trapped in the Hawke cellar.

“I feel like that’s racist,” Fenris said, “I wouldn’t call you, _Dwarf_ Captain.”

“Yes you would,” Varric grinned.

“Yeah I would. Commander. Dwarf Commander is better,” Fenris smiled back drunkenly. Varric pounded his fist to his chest in a mock salute, then marched past Fenris, requisitioning the wine bottle from his grasp and plopping down on the lounge to take a long draw from it.

Fenris climbed what felt like two endless sets of stairs, finally falling into bed next to Hawke, too lazy to lift the sheets. He just watched her sleep for a while, her look peaceful, breath slow and steady, not yet struck by one of the nightmares that seemed to wake her almost every night. It must be a human thing to need so much sleep, he thought, and wondering why. He started to imagine how that thread might fit into his saga about the translating elf, when suddenly it was morning.

Hawke had gone, which surprised Fenris. Even when he’d drank too much the night before, he often still managed to be first out of bed in the morning. Judging by the angle of light trickling through the wood-slatted windows, it was still quite early. He washed and dressed, wandering down into the dining room to find something to eat. His over-indulgence of wine had given him a regrettable headache and he wanted to see the pain diminished before their training session later this afternoon. Hawke entered from the front hall, not seeming too surprised to see Fenris sitting alone at the table.

“Where’d you go?” he asked,

“I went to see a man about some horses,” she grinned, sitting down on his lap and pulling him into a long kiss.

“Meaning, you went to tell Anders to see a man about some horses?” he asked once they came up for breath, and she nodded silently before pulling him back into the kiss.

Though Hawke had many occasions to see Anders of late, she had yet to talk to him about his feelings toward her, as Fenris had suggested weeks ago. At first he thought he was crazy for suggesting that the woman he loved talk to another man about his love for her. However the more first-hand accounts Fenris got of how unreservedly she fell apart when she fought the mage, the more he thought it was a good idea. She was a total wreck when she fought Anders, and if any of that trickled into how she would fight in the coming months, it could be deadly not only for her, but for them all.

“‘I’m guessing you still haven’t talked to him, then?” Fenris asked, tracing lighting along the scar she’d earned during her last encounter with Anders. At the time her gaining more pain at the mage’s hand had angered him. However it had provided a compelling topic of conversation at the feast she and Sebastian had attended at Lord Maeston’s mansion, spurring an interesting twist to the ongoing saga of the ‘relationship’ between the Prince of Starkhaven and the Champion of Kirkwall, which had been endlessly entertaining for them all.

“What good will that do? It’ll just dredge up things he doesn’t want to think about,” she said, sighing and letting go of the handful of hair she’d seized.

“It’s getting a bit absurd, don’t you think? _I_ know he has feelings for you - _you_ know he has feelings for you - and he certainly knows - and he knows _you_ know - yet you two are trying to act like nothing is wrong.”

“Nothing _is_ wrong,” she said, “I’m with you, there was never a moment where I had to pick, it’s always been you. Dredging up his feelings by forcing him to come clean with me won’t do him any good.”

“It’s about doing _you_ some good - not him,” Fenris clarified as Hawke stood and crossed the dining room to pour herself a glass of water.

“That just seems selfish,” she said.

“You know as well as I do, if you’re holding back even a hair because of Anders, it could get you killed.”

“You said it yourself - I’m fine when fighting others. Why does it matter how I fight against or even _with_ Anders? He’s not coming with us anyways,” she said.

“That’s hilarious, Hawke,” he said derisively, scooting back in his chair and standing to approach her, “You really think the mage isn’t coming?

“He _told_ me he isn’t,” she said innocently, and he felt momentary remorse for his ridicule, though it was quickly enveloped in his rising aggravation.

“You’ve pointed out before how much he and I are alike? Trust me when I say, there’s not a chance in the Void he’ll stay behind,” he said, “He won’t leave your side, not for a day, a week, certainly not for months on end while you traipse about Thedas stirring up evil maleficar. He’ll be there to save you, in the end, like he always is.”

She seemed to take some offense to the latter part of his statement, replying defensively, “What is that supposed to mean? Do I need an inordinate amount of saving?”

He sighed. Lately it seemed that Hawke had been honing the female ability to twist arbitrary meaning from words.

As amicably as he could manage, he said, “I only mean that he won’t miss a chance to help you.”

“That doesn’t really sound any better,” she said, starting to sound angry herself. He knew the conversation was spiraling, as arguments often did, but he found himself continuing anyway.

“He may be strong, and often selfless, but you know as well as I do that he needs to be someone you need.”

“Anders isn’t as mindless as you give him credit for, he’s his own man.”

“You aren’t that naive, Hawke. He and I passed that point a long time ago, and we both accepted it,” Fenris said.

“You’re missing the key point again - I picked you, I want to be with _you_ ,” she said, her voice on an edge between anger and supplication.

“Then imagine my frustration when I see that you can’t bare to hurt him in the slightest, yet you’ll literally beat me with your bare hands.”

“That’s different,” she said, as if he was being unfair, “I love you, and I have the opportunity to show you that. I have very little control over the ways in which I hurt him - causing him physical pain is one thing I _can_ control.”

When he didn’t respond right away, she looked down in frustration, taking a breath to calm herself.

“I’m sorry, Fenris, you’re probably right. I don’t know why I’ve been acting the way I have,” she said finally, seeming genuinely bewildered by herself, “I don’t know how to handle Anders, he’s my best friend but there’s something in the way, there’s something between us and I can’t figure out what. In the dreams, I get it - it’s easy to understand what’s happening and what I feel. But when I wake up, it’s a totally different world again, nothing is the same.”

“ _Dreams_?” he asked. She returned his confused look with one of trepidation, obviously having strayed into a tangent she didn’t anticipate.

He tried to temper his anger, then continued, “Are these dreams the reason you’ve been waking in a panic practically every night for the last few weeks? I would have thought those were nightmares.”

Hawke sat silently for a few long moments, looking like she was either gathering courage or simply being careful about her choice of words, or maybe both.

Finally, she said, “Not nightmares… not even dreams, not really.”

“How so?” he asked, cooling his anger a bit as he dug for an explanation.

“More like… memories?” she said hazily, “Things that happened, even though they never did… I’m not explaining it well.”

“Why haven’t you told me about this?”

“They’ve only been going on a little while.”

“How long?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” he said firmly. Neither of them said anything for a long time, holding one another’s glare fervently.

“Do you have feelings for him?” he found himself asking, surprised by the flatness of his own tone.

“No,” she said incredulously, then added, almost as an aside, “In the dreams, yes-“

“In the dream _yes_?” he repeated angrily. He had been fighting to hold back his temper, but it was getting to be too much.

“Well,” she started defensively, and he saw a hint of unexpected fire in her eye, “What about you and Merrill?”

Fenris was surprised as his face flushed, but the anger superseded his embarrassment, “Fasta vass, Hawke, are you kidding?”

“I’m not totally blind, Fenris, you have both been acting strange around one another lately.”

“Let’s disregard the fact that I’m unequivocally doomed to love you for eternity. Not only is she a mage - she practices _blood magic_ \- the fact that I tolerate her presence _at all_ is shocking, so in what world could I possibly have feelings for Merrill?”

“I love you too,” she said softly. It that easy for his steely resolve to fall to pieces. They rarely fought, but when they did, it more often than not ended like this, with Hawke reminding him that they loved each other, and that it was all that mattered. His frustration wasn’t with her, it was the situation. Her dreams were not her fault, and though he wished she would have confided in him, their content was not something she had control over. Anders was always going to be between them in some way, it wasn’t any of their faults, it was just how the reality of their lives had played out. It was never fated to be simple.

No matter how much he grew to respect or even like Anders, he didn’t know how not to be jealous of him. Hawke had never shown any superfluous affection toward the mage, but Fenris could sense her pull toward him. They were close friends, sure, but she seemed extraneously drawn to the man, be it in battle or just daily life. And if Fenris could feel it, he was sure Anders could as well, which he thought must be a very difficult thing to contend with, despite Hawke’s ignorance.

Sebastian had suggested once, in an attempt to placate Fenris’s jealousy, that he try to imagine the rolls reversed - if Hawke was with Anders and he was the one the outside, not able to act on his devotions. He thought about that often now, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle it. He knew he would want to beat Anders senseless, but more than likely he’d just want to leave, to avoid having to take part in it whatsoever. He didn’t know if he could though, even if she was with someone else. She would still need him, all of them – not to fight with her, but to give her a reason to go on. She’d lost too much, too many of the people closest to her, and he didn’t think he’d be able to leave her until death finally took him.

Fenris knew that was the same reason Anders was still there, despite the pain that accompanied staying. So he tried to give the mage the benefit of the doubt, because he was able to empathize, even if it was figuratively. And as much as they disagreed, Fenris didn’t want to see him suffer.

Thinking of relationships that had recently become even more awkward, Fenris was reminded of Hawke’s comment about Merrill. He thought it might be time to let her in on the reason why Merrill had been acting like a hunted halla every time Hawke entered the room.

“Do you want to know what happened between Merrill and I?” Fenris asked. She looked a bit surprised, then nodded. He recounted a lighthearted but accurate version of the events that had led to he and Merrill’s kiss in the pantry, and her eyes brightened as he concluded the story.

“That’s it? That’s silly,” she said, almost seeming disappointed.

“I know. I should have told you sooner, I don’t know why I didn’t,” he said, his anger having subsided wholly in favor of tenderness, “I want to share everything with you. Everything in my life is good now, good with you in it, good with the others. I'm over having things I can't or won't tell anyone, I don’t want that life anymore."

Hawke kissed him deeply, in a way that felt like a reward. He must have said something right.

“So that’s why Merrill has been acting so on edge?” she clarified. Fenris realized that since Hawke was the catalyst, it must have appeared to be Merrill’s constant state of existence since the heist.

“Yes, but I’m guessing spending all your time in a dark cellar while your friends revolve in an endless cycle to watch over you like a prisoner… doesn’t really help,” he said. She nodded regretfully, he knew she wished as much as they all did that Merrill’s sentence would end sooner than later.


	14. Chapter 14

_Maker, what had happened? This wasn’t right, this wasn’t how it should be._

_She was riding on horseback, fast and hard, unrelenting. She didn’t let the poor beast slow for even a second. He sat behind her on the saddle, his arms latched tightly around her waist, her hair whipping around her face in the wake of a cold and bitter wind. She couldn’t think of anything but what Varric had just said._

_‘Hawke, there isn’t much time.’ It meant two things. It meant it was all about to erupt, to spiral out of control, if it hadn’t already. And it meant she had to get him out, take him away before it was too late. She hadn’t wasted a moment, she was going as fast as she could, riding as fast as she ever had, even faster than when she was a child, riding wild horses bareback through the fields outside Lothering. She hadn’t been burdened by sense then, she had the naiveté all children did, she didn’t know how dangerous it was, how reckless. She tried to evoke that feeling now to fuel her speed even more, but her panic wouldn’t let her. The time had been too different, too carefree, before blights and refugees and mages and templars and Kirkwall._

_The dwarf’s grim tone still rang through her head, pulling at her grief and guilt, as if she could have done something different, somehow changed things. There was an order to it, a way she knew she could have fixed it if she had ever known the context, or had all the right pieces…_

 

This one had been different, and it unnerved Hawke. It had felt like the others in its authenticity, however devastating, but it didn’t feel like a memory or like it had already happened. It felt like something that was yet to come.

She knew it was her mind playing tricks on her. Her psyche was trying to tell her something, to help work out her emotions. But it had been crafty with this one, clever. She couldn’t piece together its meaning as she sat alone on the bed holding her knees tightly to her chin. The emotions of the dream still lingered heavily, and her inability to shake it had added even more to the mix, so she now also felt paranoid and nervous. The estate was quiet, but she felt if a pin dropped it could send her over the edge. She’d heard stories of a powerful mixture of herbs that could make someone feel this way. People took it for sport or hobby, to pass the time, to entertain. Had she been drugged? Or was that the paranoia? Or was that what they wanted her to think?

Every night since the heist, Hawke had woken after one of these unsettling dreams, and every night it felt just as real as ever. Some seemed so real, she would feel like she was waking _into_ the dream, instead of from it. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but it was starting to scare her. If these… hallucinations… continued at their current escalation, she felt like she could start to lose her grasp on reality.

She knew what would help. She leapt out of bed, her anxiety permitting her to ignore the need to add any clothing to the short tunic she’d worn to sleep in. She needed to talk to Fenris, tell him about this one, a dream that felt like premonition instead of memory. It had been a week since she’d come clean with him about the strange dreams and he had been helping her sort through their meanings. She would occasionally leave out some of the details, things she thought he might find particularly disturbing or things she felt guilty for apparently having stored away in her subconscious, but he knew enough that he would be able to help with her unease.

Even though it wasn’t his allotted time, she knew she would find him in the cellar. She descended the stairs toward the large wooden door which she found slightly ajar, the light from the candles dancing across the stones in a thin line. She pushed the heavy door open a crack to peak inside, but didn’t see Merrill sitting at her desk, a relatively odd sight despite the late hour. She pushed through the rest of the way and stepped in, revealing a slumbering Merrill sprawled out on the lounge, her thin, ink stained fingers hanging over the edge of the cushions. Her feet rested across Fenris’s lap, the sleeping man cradling a bottle of wine in one hand, the other resting gently on one of the mage’s bare feet.

Though she felt like this should stir some kind of jealousy in her, she couldn’t muster it. It was sweet, really, especially considering how at odds the two had always been. She couldn’t bring herself to wake them, so she returned back the way she came, instead dragging her poor hound up the stairs from the foyer and into her bed. After recounting the entire tale to the beast, who tilted his head endearingly every few words as he stared back at her, she curled up next to him and fell asleep.

The following morning, Hawke woke early and went to the cellar to accompany Merrill for a while, peeking at her notes, though futile, as she had no idea how the woman could make sense of the things she’d written. Over the last week Hawke had received tidbits of information from her, but the mage kept insisting that in order to have context and not give her potentially inaccurate information, she’d need to complete the entire translation before announcing her findings with any certainty. This was causing Hawke quite a bit of anxiety, and after being informed that it was _not_ helpful to hover over the elf and inquire as to her progress roughly every ten minutes, Hawke let Anders relieve her watch duty and instead took a trip down to Merrill’s home in the alienage to check the status of the map book.

Hawke hadn’t used the book herself yet, but Merrill had always kept her up to date on the locations of the marks, even transferring them onto larger, modern maps so they could note any patterns or major changes week to week. There had never been any notable movements and the vast majority of the marks never strayed more than a few dozen miles. Though the ancient book was magical in origin and required a ritual to be activated, Hawke knew that once it had been been attuned to specific blood, it required no more magic in order to be updated again after that. She felt fairly certain she should be able to work it herself without incident.

Entering the elf’s home felt odd at first, Hawke had never been there alone. It was dark and musty, having been unoccupied for more than three weeks. It was as if everything there had existed in a moment decades ago and had been preserved, untouched, now on display for posterity. Two half drank glasses of wine sat on the table, more than a dozen cowls hung on hooks or the backs of chairs or in an odd pile by the fireplace, and a handful of sheets were strewn haphazardly in an ineffective attempt to cloak the Eluvian. There were papers everywhere, half common, half elvish notes scribbled on parchment of all sizes and supplemented with rough sketches and diagrams. And books. Books opened, books stacked, books toppled, books marked, books balanced precariously on shelves, in corners, under the bed, on the bed. Most, if not all, were remnants of their research into the Belhim’irsa.

Hawke made her way through the dimly lit room and to the large table where Merrill had spent most of her time studying. She lit a candle, only needing to pass it back and forth a few times before she found what she was looking for. The closed map book sat atop the table, conspicuous by the narrow hole in the center that ran the depth of the book. It was this opening that accepted the blood of the target, magically filtering the substance onto the pages to reveal the whereabouts of the one meant to be tracked. Hawke was reminded of how dangerous this book could be in the wrong hands, and made a mental note to decide whether to protect or destroy it at at a later date.

Next to the book sat a half empty vial of blood, the only they had left. It was this blood-filled potion that when combined with the Prophet Malefica’s power, had almost killed Hawke. A shudder ran down her spine at the memory of it, the strange vacancy of the unconsciousness she had experienced that night. It was washed away however by a warm reminder of what that experience had brought her - a realization that she was in love with Fenris, and all the contentment and comfort she’d experienced since.

She pulled out the chair and sat down, wanting to be careful to not use too much of the concoction, or Maker forbid, spill it. She carefully uncapped and poured a tiny amount of the blood into the opening, capping the vial back up tightly, then waiting a few moments as the liquid disappeared into the pages. She opened the book, starting at the first page and flipping through slowly. It was somewhat difficult to determine locations on the various pages, as Thedas had been a much different place when this book was created Ages ago. Though the mountains, rivers and seas were steadfast and could provide rough approximations of locations, Hawke was grateful to whoever had ahold of it over the last few decades or centuries, as they had added some markings to indicate the locations of present day borders and major cities.

The bloody flecks were unsurprising to Hawke as she casually flipped through - the quantity and positions all similar to ones she’d seen previously. Until she got to the map of Kirkwall.

 

***

 

Hawke threw open the door to her estate, map book in tow. Sebastian and Varric were playing cards across from each other at a table in the foyer, and looked up in surprise as she rushed through the door.

“A mark!” Hawke exclaimed and they returned her look of panic with confusion. She looked around for the others, knowing they should have all arrived by now, as they’d planned to meet before their daily training session. Aveline entered from the dining room looking worried, Legion following close behind, padding past her and toward his panicked master. Fenris appeared at the top of the stairs, looking concernedly down at Hawke as she waved the book at them.

“In Kirkwall - there’s a mark,” she said, and she was relieved to see their looks turn to appropriate shock.

“Are you sure?” Varric asked, reaching out and taking the book from her, flipping the pages quickly as Sebastian looked over his shoulder. Fenris came down the steps as Anders appeared from the cellar, followed closely by Merrill, both looking confused by the commotion.

“Well Maker’s balls,” Varric sighed, “She’s right.”

Merrill saw what was in Varric’s hands and marched over, tearing the book from his grasp.

“What are you doing?” she asked, then looked to Hawke as Varric recoiled, “Why did you check it without me?”

“I asked you if I should go, you told me I could!” Hawke replied defensively, confused by the source of the mage’s ire.

“I did?” Merrill asked, genuinely perplexed. To be fair, Hawke had known the elf wasn’t entirely paying attention at the time, but she had needed something to do, something to make her feel like they were making progress. And now she was glad she had, as it appeared someone had decided to visit while they had all been mucking about in the wine cellar.

“Maker, Merrill does it matter? Someone is here, in Kirkwall, right now,” Hawke said, astounded that she seemed to have to explain the reasoning for her reaction. Merrill said nothing for a few moments, her look slowly descending from outrage into pained worry.

“I… I didn’t want you to find out,” she said, then added almost to herself, “Not like this, certainly, but not at all, really.”

At first Hawke looked around, confused at who Merrill was directing her statement at. Eventually however, the mage looked up, meeting Hawke’s eyes with her own - large, round and guilty.

“Find out what…?” Hawke asked nervously, checking to confirm that the others were as baffled as she. They all looked just as lost, save Anders who seemed equal parts concerned and suspicious.

“It’s you,” Merrill said, “That mark is you.”

Hawke heard nothing of what her companions said in the next few moments as the idea churned itself slowly through her mind. Is that what Merrill really meant to say? How in the Void could that possibly be true? It couldn’t be, it made no sense. Right? They’d checked this book dozens of times, why would Hawke show as a mark now?

Then she realized, _Merrill_ had checked the book dozens of times. Hawke received reports or the copies of the modern maps the marks were transposed onto, but she’d never flipped through the actual pages herself. When they’d first checked the map, they’d had it open to the page Kirkwall lay on, but the scale was such that her mark would have easily overlapped with the one of the Belhim’irsa that lay at Slaver’s Reach.

She forced herself to start listening again.

“ - bloody possible?” Varric exclaimed, mid-sentence.

“Whatever was in that vial the prophet used, it somehow made you part of all this. I don’t fully understand how,” Merrill explained.

“So all these markings, some could be people like Hawke who have survived an attack using a potion made from the Belhim’irsa’s blood?” Aveline asked.

“No,” Merrill replied simply.

“Why?” Hawke asked.

“Because no one else would have survived,” she said candidly, “The fact that you did is an anomaly, even with how powerful Anders is and the potency of Fenris’s blood. I never thought you’d actually survive it.”

“Fasta vaas, Merrill,” Fenris cursed, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because,” she exclaimed, throwing her hand out to indicate Hawke, “Look at her!”

Hawke was suddenly intently aware of six pairs of eyes on her face, reading her pained, panicked expression for what it was - pained, and very very panicked.

“I don’t need to be coddled,” Hawke said sternly.

“I wasn’t,” Merrill said, shaking her head, “I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t want to cause you undue pain.”

“What does this mean?” Anders asked quietly. Hawke was unable to read his expression.

“I don’t know,” Merrill implored, “I was hoping the text would shed more light on it, but I haven’t uncovered anything beyond what we already know, that the potion somehow magically barred her soul from her body.”

“Uh… what?” Varric asked flatly.

“Did we know that?” Aveline asked, looking to Sebastian and Varric for validation.

“Sort of,” Hawke clarified wistfully, “Merrill and I spent some time trying to find out more about the power the potion had.”

“There’s no way to be completely certain of what happened,” Merrill explained, “But the ritual we used to save her binds a soul to a body, though it was heavily modified to suit our needs.”

“So… what, the potion sent her soul off into the Void for a while and when it came back, it had somehow connected her blood to all these demons and maleficar?” Varric asked incredulously.

“What we did… it’s unique,” Merrill said, “We delved into something uncharted, and… I’m sorry, but I just don’t have more answers.”

The tension in the room was palpable, awkward. Aveline and Sebastian exchanged a worried look, Varric rubbed his temples with one hand. Anders had crossed his arms and was looking distant and thoughtful, as if trying to piece together the implications. Fenris was seething, just teetering on the edge of boiling.

Hawke wasn’t sure how she expected them to react, she didn’t know how to herself. She didn’t know what to make of the information, how to fathom what it may mean that her own blood was connected to all these people who had done such terrible things.

“I’m sorry Hawke,” Merrill said, shaking her head, “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

Fenris stepped toward Merrill, and Hawke reacted on instinct by stepping between them, a hand lightly around his arm in an attempt to calm him.

“How can you keep things like this from us at this point, mage?” Fenris growled over Hawke’s shoulder, though he sounded more personally offended than defensive of Hawke.

“Honestly, I don’t think it will have any consequences, it’s just a side effect,” Merrill implored.

“Linked by blood to dozens of maleficarum doesn’t sound potentially hazardous?” Anders asked, the anger in his voice quiet, but absolute.

Hawke wavered, she hadn’t thought of that. What kind of power might they have over her if they were to realize what she was? The beast they’d killed at Slaver’s Reach could sense what had happened to her, it knew she had been all but dead, and had mentioned more than once that she seemed an enigma. Fenris noticed her unease and pulled himself away from the sizable glare he had leveled at Merrill to look her concernedly in the eye. He took her arms in either hand gently, holding her closer.

“You ok love?” he asked breathily as the others continued the argument around them. She nodded slowly, then looked up to meet his gaze. Instead of swinging across his forehead and eyes, he had his hair swept up and smoothed back against the top of his head. He’d been wearing it like that more and more lately. Why was she choosing now to wonder why?

She knew there was nothing she could do, no way to get more answers until the translation was complete. All she could hope was that Merrill would finish soon and that it might shed more light on the repercussions of what they’d done. At least the nauseating, condemned feeling she’d always had about the ritual was now validated. For whatever comfort that held, which was none.


	15. Chapter 15

It was finally over. Fenris never thought the sun felt so warm, the breeze so refreshing. Even the nobility that traipsed by seemed less annoying in the wake of the mood he now carried as he and Merrill paraded out of the Hawke estate and through the streets of Hightown.

She had just been sitting there like it was any other day, quill behind her ear, errant ink stains smudged across her cheeks. She had set her notes aside, tucked the quill into the ink well, and shut the book. She’d smiled up at him slowly, and he’d leapt up as he realized what it meant, scooping her into a celebratory hug. They’d actually _hugged_ one another, blinded by excitement. They’d all but skipped hand-in-hand out of their dungeon, Legion barking after them and their unusual mood.

It was late afternoon and the others had gone to train, so he and Merrill gleefully wound their way through the streets of Kirkwall toward the Wounded Coast to bring them the good news. The best news. They were finally done, Merrill had the whole story, they could make their plans and finally leave Kirkwall to hunt down the creators of that gruesome beast.

The others were fighting in teams when they arrived, the rogues and Anders against the warriors, which at first Fenris thought was a bit weighted to the men. Hawke & Aveline were holding their own however, having created a rather effective looking shield barrier, though it was backing them against the far wall of the cavern with no alternate means of escape. Hawke almost took a bolt to the neck as she noticed Fenris and Merrill standing and watching, peaking her head out to try and gauge why they’d arrived so early.

The relief amongst the group was palpable as they dropped what they were doing and swarmed Merrill, congratulating and thanking her. He knew much of their relief was like his own - that they wouldn’t have to sit in that forsaken cellar for another moment. He made a mental note to insist Hawke store the wine elsewhere so he wouldn’t ever have to set foot down there again.

“I’ve a whole stash of ale down here for just such an occasion!” Varric said, heading off into one of the low tunnel systems then returning, rolling a barrel before him.

“Really?” Anders asked skeptically, “Not just because it’s a good place to keep your alcohol cold?”

“Shush, Blondie,” Varric said, “Let’s celebrate!”

“What about the translation?” Aveline asked, sounding eager to hear the details.

“Yes, there’s a lot to go over,” Merrill sighed, wringing her hands nervously.

“That can wait until morning,” Hawke said, which surprised Fenris. She’d been somewhat impatient up to now in regards to getting answers, particularly since finding out that her blood was so intimately connected with it all.

“You heard the boss, let’s celebrate!” Varric said, tapping the keg by simply stabbing a dagger into the side and catching the contents with a mug as it poured out. Fenris accepted a drink gratefully, taking a long, and he thought well-deserved, draw. They’d spent this long waiting, what couldn’t wait one more night?

 

* * *

  

“I’m sorry,” Varric said incredulously, “I thought I just heard you say _we didn’t kill the Belhim’irsa_?”

“We didn’t,” was Merrill’s simple response. They all just gaped at her for a few silent moments as they sat around Hawke’s table the following morning.

“Please elaborate. Now,” was Hawke’s surprisingly patient response.

It wasn’t that Fenris didn’t take it seriously, like it may have appeared if anyone could have read his thoughts at the moment. He took it very seriously, after all, he’d by far invested the most time watching over the mage in the last month. Which was probably why he was reacting the way it was, like something he’d helped usher into this world was being revealed to him for the first time, but it had turned out to be sinfully ugly and cruel.

The more and more distressing the things she said became, the more he found his mind wandering back to his tale of the fated elf. It had a different ending now than he had thought it might, one in which another elf, one who had been destined to watch over her and protect her for all eternity… _murdered_ her in front of all their friends.

It had become a trend, with Merrill, to just not tell them things that might have a dramatic impact on their lives, so he really shouldn’t be surprised. Fenris recapped in his mind some of the things, just _some_ of the things, so far that Merrill had managed to not mention in her updates to Hawke over the last few weeks, things ranging from inconsequential to exceedingly important. But for his own amusement and to keep himself from killing the mage, he framed it in the style of his epic tale.

 _A task once thought endless had come to a close,  
__A journey’s end, the translation complete.  
__She could blow out the candles and shut the tome,  
__Now to tell the tale of what her efforts reaped._  

Long ago the ancient Elves had for some unknown and annoying reason created a ritual that allowed them to link spirits together by way of blood magic. Fenris figured it was just one of those things that didn’t seem like such a bad idea at the time, but then some crazy person got ahold of it and used it in a way you’d never have anticipated, and then you were kicking yourself for eternity for having come up with something so disastrously evil.

 _The ritual’s origins weren't covered in detail,  
__Only relayed for context and history.  
__The text portrayed a far grimmer rite,  
__One sated with blood and mystery._  

This warped version started by someone making a deal with a demon. Of course. Once the deal was struck, a group of mages would need to give their blood during an initial rite that would bring the demon from the Fade and anchor him to this world, thus creating the Belhim’irsa. This demon would remain incorporeal, however, until the entire rite could be completed.

To start, the demon would pour its essence into a focus of some kind, a physical object with the ability to hold magic. Then the mages, or 'prophets', as this incarnation of the ritual seemed to have produced, would need to make deals with additional demons who would feed the Belhim'irsa, using this physical focus to aid in their transfer from the Fade. There had been a ridiculous conversation about what to call these lesser demons.

“Technically, they would be La’vehnan Lintu Belhim’irsa,” Merrill said.

“Ok… that’s a mouthful,” Aveline replied.

“How about we just call them Vehnan?” Hawke suggested.

“Well, heart blood would be closer,” Merrill said.

After a few moments of silence, Hawke said, “Ok…?”

“Sorry, right, that’d be Vehnan’lin,” Merrill replied. Fenris thought Hawke was being incredibly patient with the mage.

“Ok - so these Vehnan’lins-“ Hawke started, only minorly stumbling over the word.

“Well… plural… would be Vehnan’linen,” Merrill interjected.“Maker, Merrill - ok, no - just Vehnan, it’s cumbersome enough already,” Hawke said exasperatedly.

“Ven - what is it?” Sebastian tried to say it.

“Vehn … in,” Anders tried but wasn’t entirely correct.

“Venen?” Aveline took a stab.

“Veh-n-an,” Merrill said very slowly.

“How about ‘mini-Belhims’?” Anders suggested, largely to himself.

Then Varric grumbled, “If we stop talking about what to call them, and just go kill them, then we don’t need to call them anything anymore.”

So it had been a _Vehnan_ they’d killed at Slaver’s Reach, not the Belhim’irsa. The Vehnans were raised in much the same way, requiring a healthy number of blood sacrifices to create their corporeal forms. Once this process was completed, any blood sacrifice made to the Vehnan fed power to the Belhim’irsa. However, it would still not be able to leave its origin, the place it crossed over from the Fade.

The prophets were responsible for finding enough blood to fuel each demon into corporeality. They would need to create a following of willing maleficarum to give regular blood sacrifices to their Vehnan. They would also clearly capture and murder dozens of _unwilling_ participants if needed, as evidenced by the body count they’d encountered in the wake of Kirkwall’s prophet.

After it fed and provided enough sustenance to the Belhim’irsa, the prophet could then use the physical focus to aid the Vehnan in its ‘ascension’. An ascended Vehnan was now fully connected _both ways_ with the Belhim’irsa, meaning the master could now control it, and any power it created through blood sacrifice was fed directly and entirely to the Belhim’irsa.

 _An agreement and blood was all that was needed,  
_ _It's essence and power to begin the deadly rite,  
_ _The prophets came to spread and summon his soldiers,  
_ _To feed and bring forth the sum of their might._

And, just for fun, an ascended Vehnan was indestructible.

 _Then she gasped! Could it be true?  
__The words spun through her head in a circle,  
__Once its bond to its master concluded,  
__The beast would become immortal!_  

So far, that had been Fenris’s very favorite part, but there was more, much more. Both the Belhim’irsa and each Vehnan could make the diabolical potions like the one that’d nearly killed Hawke. Each could do something entirely different depending on the deal each prophet made with each demon, such as the one created at Slaver's Reach which seemed to magically bar the victim's soul from their body, resulting in a quick and all but inevitable death. Whatever each potion did, however they were used, it all linked back to the Belhim’irsa, feeding it so it could grow more powerful and eventually ascend itself.

It was the potion that the Belhim’irsa would be able to create that they all needed to be afraid of, even though they had no idea of its purpose. It all depended on the deal the very first mage made with the demon, whatever they had agreed upon. The fact that this Belhim’irsa was dozens of times more powerful than the Vehnan they’d barely managed to kill at Slaver’s Reach meant that its potion would be dozens of times more powerful as well. And its potion had all but killed Hawke, no it _had_ killed Hawke, and somehow a combination of Merrill, Fenris, Anders, luck, Andraste and the Maker himself, they’d pulled her back into this world.

Merrill had assured them, as if it should comfort them, that the Belhim’irsa wouldn’t be able to create the potions until all the Vehnans had ascended and fed it enough power to complete its corporeal form.

 _Good news, alas, the first of its kind,  
_ _Destroying the master before its rise,  
_ _Would dispel every demon back to the Fade,  
_ _Severing the rite before certain demise._

Though obviously the tome held no account of it, Fenris would be remiss to forget their own part in this most interesting of tales. It could all be summed up quite nicely in the recounting of it, actually.

Ages later an unlikely group of warriors had joined forces to rid Thedas of a virulent plague of evil maleficarum. They killed a beast they’d thought was the culmination of these apostates’ evil doings, but they were sorely mistaken. This beast was just one of many of its kind, all equally large, powerful and deadly, some more so, some indestructible. Not only could each of these beasts create unique, powerful blood potions, but they each fed the _true_ demon, the one of real concern, with the blood of hundreds of innocents. As they fed, the true demon’s powers grew until it could take its form in this world and create an evil concoction of its own, its purpose, unknown…

 _And thus her fated task had come to a end.  
__What did this mean for mortal man?  
__Would the fabric of reality continue to spin-_  

“Fenris!” Hawke pulled him out of this thoughts abruptly, staring at him with wide, expectant eyes.

“What in the world, man?” Anders gaped at him as well. Fenris must have been ignoring them for quite some time.

“Sorry… spacing off a bit,” he said guilelessly.

“I agree, it’s boring, let’s go kill it now,” Varric said, standing up as if about to literally go kill it now.

“Hold on,” Merrill said, “We still have to talk about how we’re going to manage that.”

Varric sighed deeply and sat back down, “Of course we do.”

“There are still dozens of marks, most mages who gave their blood either willingly or unwillingly. From what I read, I think there’s a way I can filter the mortal blood out of it… so it will only show us the demons.”

“More blood magic?” Aveline asked warily.

Fenris grumbled, “Is it worth it?”

“We could spend years hunting them all down, but what we really need to do is sever it at the source - eliminate the Belhim'irsa before it becomes corporeal. I think it’s worth considering the lives we could save by narrowing it down to only the demons,” Merrill argued. Fenris knew she was right, but he didn’t have to like it.

“How will we know it works?” Sebastian asked.

Merrill sighed, dropping her gaze, “Well… Hawke’s mark should disappear.”

“Of bloody course,” Fenris sighed, rubbing his eyes with his palms. As his companions continued the discussion, he looked to Merrill, her eyes weary, as if she could barely keep them open, barely keep her focus on the discussion. He realized the breadth of the toll that must have been taken on her over the last few weeks. She’d hardly slept, a few hours a day at the most, and almost never left her post in the cellar. As often as Fenris had been there, there were also plenty of times he hadn’t been. He’d visit Sebastian, spend time with Hawke, help Varric or Aveline with preparations, or just sleep. But she was always in that cellar, trying to finish, trying to get the task done as quickly as possible.

He felt sorry for her now, seeing her anxious expression, the darkness that encircled her eyes. He felt guilty at his anger toward her, his unfairness. She had probably been too depressed by what she was finding out to have the energy to break bad news to them every couple days. He knew what Sebastian would say, that he’d need to handle Merrill the way he’d handled Anders, by trying to empathize, by seeing the things they held in common instead of the things that tore them apart.

This was more difficult with Merrill, her affinity to blood magic made it so, but at least he didn’t feel she might swoop in and steal Hawke from him. Though an unexpectedly intriguing line of thought, Fenris focused his attention back on the discussion. They’d agreed to filter the blood, and decided to begin preparations to leave immediately. They’d leave in two days at first light. It was finally happening.


	16. Chapter 16

The sun had just broke horizon and the streets of Kirkwall were quiet and still. Rain from the previous evening had left puddles of water amongst the cobblestones, and a cool bite to the light wind, causing Anders to pull his cloak down tighter around his shoulders. They’d met Aveline at the eastern gates just before sunrise, they with their horses and she with a cart of supplies.

_I don’t want to say I told you so._

“Saying that is the same as saying you told me so,” Anders muttered under his breath as he hauled his pack up onto the back of his horse. He turned to make sure the others weren’t near enough to hear him as he strapped the pack on. They were oblivious as they went about their own business, Hawke helping Sebastian load the pack horse and Fenris, Merrill and Varric loading down their own horses with supplies. Aveline was pacing back and forth between them all, shoving additional rations and supplies into every available space.

Anders had finally given in to joining the expedition, but not for the reason the stupid spirit liked to think. After Merrill had revealed there would be more beasts like the creature at Slaver’s Reach, Anders couldn’t _not_ go. The Vehnans would have to be killed in the same manner as the first, with one team combating the demon in the Fade, the other here, fighting the beast’s partially completed corporeal form. He was not about to trust Merrill with taking Hawke, or any of the others for that matter, into the Fade. Though Justice would take over his actions completely while there, he trusted the petulant spirit more than Merrill when it came to not making deals with demons.

His horse stomped and snarled as he finished buckling the pack down, and Anders gave him a calming pat on the haunch as Aveline approached with another saddlebag.

“I’ll call him Messere Fussypants,” Anders said dryly, earning him a laugh from the guard captain, though there was a nervous edge to it.

“More lyrium, just in case,” she said, offering him the bag. He took it gratefully and added it to his saddle, again receiving an angry snort from the horse, displeased at being additionally weighed down. They’d procured so much lyrium for this excursion, his contacts had started to think he was reselling it behind their backs.

“Thanks, Aveline,” he said, but the warrior looked down solemnly. Aveline was not pleased that she was unable to join them, and had been worrying after them like a mother bear who was about to let her cubs hunt alone for the first time. Hawke approached, her Mabari hound trailing behind her diligently.

“Maker Av, try not to look so sad,” she said, slinging her arm over the guard captain’s shoulder in an encouraging manner.

“I’m just worried,” Aveline replied, though it seemed much more to Anders like she was going to miss them.

“Think of all the potential for peace and prosperity there’ll be while we aren’t here to wreak havoc on your city,” Anders said, only half joking, but still earning him a weak smile in response.

“This is important, this is good work,” Aveline said resolutely, “I know you have to go, but Kirkwall will miss you.”

“We’ll hurry back to her,” Hawke said reassuringly, then turned and crouched down to look her hound in the eye.

“Legion, you’ll be staying with Aveline,” she announced to him, his head tilting in confusion.

“Hawke, no,” Aveline resisted, but was completely ignored.

“You listen to Aveline and Donnic. You be a good boy, help them with patrols,“ and then she leaned in, and Anders could barely hear her add much more seriously, “You keep her safe.”

The hound seemed pleased to accept the mission, then looked up to Aveline with expectant eyes.

“Thank you Hawke,” Aveline said, turning and hugging Hawke gratefully. Aveline was the closest thing Hawke had to a sibling since Carver and Bethany had passed, and he knew it would take a toll both on Hawke and the group to be without the warrior over the next few months. The others finished packing their horses and made their way closer to them, taking turns saying their goodbyes to Aveline and receiving reminders from her about the things they’d been working on in training.

Fenris could be too brash, he needed to remember that it was sometimes better to be defensive. Varric’s exaltations upon killing a foe might be good for morale, but too easily drew attention to his location on the field of battle. Sebastian often focused too much on control when it would be better to go for the kill. Merrill shouldn’t be afraid to get up close and physical, and Anders should remember how deadly he could be when up close and physical.

“And for the love of the Maker, Hawke,” she said finally, “Use your shield.”

Hawke smiled but the look she gave Aveline said she wasn’t about to make any promises.

“I’ll have the additional supply shipments ready for you to pick up,” Aveline continued, “Try to send word ahead if you get delayed or change course. Be steadfast but careful, work together, and come back to me in one piece. All of you.”

They mounted their horses, Sebastian all but lifting Merrill completely up into her saddle. Unsure of what to do, the mage simply sat wide-eyed upon it as it trotted in a tight circle amongst the others. She had very little experience riding and looked more than uncomfortable. She seemed absolutely terrified in fact, as if being made to ride a violent beast that may throw her from the saddle and then devour her whole.

“Alright, we have a one in seven chance that this will be the big bad, right?” Varric asked, peering at the map as Hawke rolled it open to get her bearings.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Merrill said, twisting her neck in an effort to face them as the horse continued his circling.

“Not great odds, but I’ll take it,” Anders said, heeling into his horse and leading it toward the gates. After Merrill had filtered the blood and fed the result back into the map book, there had been seven marks that remained. They had hoped to find the Belhim’irsa first, severing the rite at the source. This would eliminate the need to destroy the Vehnans, as they would slip back into the Fade as soon as the magic of the Belhim’irsa stopped tethering them to this world.

They had no way to distinguish the Belhim’irsa’s mark however, but as Merrill had pointed out, any Vehnan they destroyed would make the Belhim’irsa that much weaker, so any effort they spent killing a Vehnan wouldn’t be for naught. That is, unless the Vehnan had already ascended, in which case it was immortal, in which case… they’d just run away, he supposed.

They headed through the gates, Anders had taken the lead but noticed as Hawke lagged behind, giving Aveline one last anxious wave, then turning her horse to follow the rest out. Fenris had taken disgruntled pity on Merrill, lashing her reigns to his and leading her mount like a pack horse. Varric and Sebastian trailed behind the elves, the prince having tethered the true pack horse to his own mount. They headed east into the rising sun, the Vimmark Mountains looming to their left and sloping roughly down into the Waking Sea on their right.

It would take them the better part of a week to wind their way along the coast toward Ostwick, just west of which lay their first target. After that, they’d hire a ship to travel back across the Waking Sea to port near the Ferelden border to Orlais, a voyage that would also take a week or likely longer, depending on the cooperation of the wind. Once back on land they’d head south to Redcliffe, then west into the Arbor Wilds, either by crossing straight through the Frostback Mountains, or by skirting under them to the south, an ongoing point of contention amongst the group.From there they’d head to Orlais where they’d hit Montsimmard, Nahashin Marshes and Ghislain, then a final stretch up to the outskirts of Nevarra. It would have sounded like the holiday plans of a young group of nobles, except for the stop in the Arbor Wilds.

Assuming fair weather and no unforeseen circumstances, the travel time alone would keep them from Kirkwall for more than three months. Anders still felt that same sense of impending doom regarding Hawke’s fate, so he was certain there would be unforeseen circumstances. He hoped they’d get lucky, they were owed a bit of luck occasionally. Maybe the Belhim’irsa would be in Ostwick or Redcliffe, and they could put an end to all this and return back to Kirkwall in less than a month. He wasn’t sure why he cared, he had no special affinity to the city that he was aware of, by all counts he should be glad for the change of scenery, glad for the distance between himself and the templars, between himself and Meredith, that he was now gaining as they wound their way through the sandy paths of the Wounded Coast.

He was starting to think his gut feeling about the trip was worsening with every step they took away from the city walls, when he realized it had morphed into another sensation entirely. One he hadn’t felt in many, many years and had thought, or hoped, that he’d never feel again.

“Guys…” Anders said slowly as he drew his reigns in to slow his horse and take in the scene around them, “…darkspawn.”

They all slowed, save Merrill’s horse who didn’t seem to get the idea and almost pulled Fenris off his saddle as it continued obliviously onward.

“What?” Hawke asked, as if he’d just said something scandalously inappropriate.

“Here, now,” he said, turning his mount to have a look into the brush. He couldn’t tell their exact location, but the feeling was unmistakable, and they were close.

“ _Darkspawn_?” Sebastian asked, looking at him concernedly as his horse shuffled beneath him uneasily.

“That’s what the man said,” Fenris said, staring at Anders as if he’d just claimed to spot a griffin.

“There is an opening to the Deep Roads east of here,” Sebastian pointed out.

“Seriously?” Varric exclaimed, turning his mount back to face the way they’d come, “We’re like a few hundred paces from Kirkwall-“

The dwarf was cut short as a wicked arrow rang though the air, narrowly missing his face and causing his horse to rear. Anders turned to see where the arrow had originated, and though obscured by a rocky outcropping of brush and wind weathered trees, he could see at least a half dozen of the brutes. Three more appeared as they skirted the outcropping, charging the six of them with grotesque scowls, crude weapons raised high.

One thing they’d never thought to to practice was mounted combat. It seemed a bit obvious now, as Anders tried to decide whether it was better or worse to stay on the beast. Merrill’s horse spun in confusion and the mage was sliding dangerously off one side of the saddle, but Fenris had reversed his mount quickly enough to catch her, helping her slide the rest of the way down safely, then leaping off his own, his enormous greatsword already brandished. Off mount it was, then, Anders thought as he slid off his saddle and headed toward the cover of brush Sebastian and Varric had found, Merrill tucking in quickly behind them.

Hawke and Fenris held no hesitation as they charged into the fray of the three rushing Darkspawn, cleverly arcing the fight around so their backs were no longer exposed to the band of archers. Seeing that the warriors had it well in hand, Anders and the others turned their attention to the archers as a volley of arrows rained down just short of their cover. Anders positioned himself so he could keep an eye on both the warriors and the others as they prepared their own hail of arrows, though slightly less impressive with only the two of them. Merrill’s impressive downpour of lighting and wind made up for it however, causing many of the assailants to retreat further into the brush and away from the patch of violent storm she’d created.

With the pressure lifted, Anders was able to check on Hawke and Fenris, who had already dispatched two of the assailants. Hawke was about to gut the third when a massive group of darkspawn crested the ridge and descended upon the warriors. Anders cursed under his breath and quickly sent out a wave of rejuvenation, helping to strengthen their resolve as they were swarmed by the gruesome beasts. Varric had changed his focus, picking off the stragglers from the group that were beginning to surround the warriors. Anders sent out a flow of magic to fuel the rogue’s speed, allowing him to reload Bianca more quickly, bolt after bolt felling another darkspawn.

Despite the chaos, Anders took note of how harmonized everyone seemed to be, the hours and hours spent training really seemed to be paying off. He took the opportunity to switch to offensive spells, freezing foes in place to allow for easier strikes from the others, and searing some of them with blasts of fire, careful not to set any ablaze that were too close to Hawke or Fenris. A violent outburst of lighting from Merrill was accompanied by rocking earth, spooking the horses, and Anders watched with remorse as the pack of them scurried away, continuing along down the sandy path. Though it was good that they were now out of range of attack, he hoped they would be able to catch up with them once this fight was over.

Anders half stood in surprise as he noticed a darkspawn approaching Hawke from behind, swinging its brutish sword wildly and baring a full mouth of sharp, grotesque teeth. He reacting on instinct, throwing out a weave of air that pushed the creature away from her forcefully, and feeling the breeze herself, she turned to see the creature splay across the sand. She flipped her hilt in her hands, reversing her grip so she could trust downward and through its chest with the full force of her blade. She pulled it back out in one smooth motion, swinging the sword into another beast as it slid down the sandy hill toward her and Fenris. The elf was holding his own as well, the pile of darkspawn bodies around him beginning to hamper the fiends ability to get closer to him.

After only a few more moments it was done, the final creature falling limply to the ground as an arrow from Sebastian struck it squarely in the temple. Hawke wiped blood from her sweaty brow with the back of one hand, from what Anders could tell, it was not her own.

“Everyone ok?” she asked, out of breath. They all nodded, looking to one another warily and panting as they caught their breath. If this was indicative of how their travels were going to go, it was going to be a _very_ long trip.


	17. Chapter 17

It had taken them seven days of relatively uneventful travel to reach their destination just west of the city-state of Ostwick. Hawke had risen early, though still after Fenris, and was sitting on the ground near the fire with the map book opened on her lap. She was attempting to reason out more specifically where the demon may be located, though the scale of the book was such that there was really no way to tell with any accuracy.

They’d pushed hard in toward the southern outskirts of Ostwick the evening before, paying a jovial innkeeper to stable their horses near the port before retreating back into the woods west of town. Varric had all but begged to stay in the comfort of the inn instead of setting up camp for another night, but Hawke didn’t want any rumors of their whereabouts reaching the wrong ears.

It had been decided they would spend one day searching the outskirts themselves for the creature before heading into the city-state to start asking questions. Hawke didn’t want it to come to that, so she’d spent part of the morning analyzing a topographical map of the area and planning a sweeping search.

The others had slowly trickled out of their tents and were starting to gather around the fire for breakfast. She could sense Fenris approaching before he sat down next to her on the thick bed of pine needles that covered the forest floor. He leaned in to kiss her forehead as she ran over the plan once more in her head. Varric was the last to join them, emerging from the woods and earning a disapproving frown from Merrill as he had barely finished securing his pants.

“We’ll take it in pairs,” Hawke said, rolling out the larger map next to the fire.

The others gathered around as they silently chewed on bread or dried meat. She indicated locations with the end of a stick as she detailed the plan.

“We don’t have time to scout every area properly, so I think we’ll be best suited to cover each in a triangle. One group will head northeast, after three hours, they’ll skirt back straight west for another three, then head southeast back toward camp. The next group will head southeast, west, then northwest. The last group will be west-southwest, north, east-southeast. That group will need to adjust their timing, something more like three and a half, then two hours. These other areas are mostly cliffside or prairie. We’ll miss a few sections, but I took into consideration the most likely locations for caves, valleys or hideaways.”

“I think we all know it’s going to be a cave,” Varric said, “A dank, depressing, blood-filled cave.”

“Can’t wait, let’s get started!” Anders said cheerily.

“What are the pairings?” Merrill asked.

“I hadn’t got that far - but let’s make sure each group has a decent tracker and someone who’s good with direction, we don’t need anyone getting lost out there.” Hawke rolled up the map. “And try to stay balanced as far as combat in case we do encounter resistance.”

Anders crossed his arms. “How about… Hawke and Sebastian, Fenris and Merrill, Varric and I?”

“You’re putting me with Hawke,” Sebastian began, raising a dark eyebrow. “You think I’m the weakest?”

Hawk smiled. “It’s cute you think I’m the strongest.” She stood up to begin transferring some rations into a rucksack.

“Strongest, _scariest_ , whatever,” Varric said.

“She’s got a big, sharp sword, that’s the only reason I suggested the pairing,” Anders said amicably, holding his hands up in resignation to the prince as he turned to pack his own bag.

“I also have a big, sharp sword,” Fenris said dejectedly.

“You and Sebastian together? You’d be lost in three seconds,” Anders said, earning a glare from the elf, though he wasn’t wrong. Navigating through nature hadn’t proved to be either of their fortes over the last seven days, including Varric, who had more than once got on his horse in the morning heading back the way they’d come. He would mumble something about being drawn back to Kirkwall, or that his instincts were confused with all this sky around, which would launch Fenris into a rant about how Varric was the very definition of a surfacer and that they’d probably all spent more time in the Deep Roads than he.

“I’m sorry, but we’ve all seen Anders at his scariest, right?” Hawke asked, continuing their conversation about battle prowess.

Anders scoffed. “Oh come on, like we aren’t all scared to death of Bianca?”

“Blood magic,” was the dwarf’s only response, pointing to Merrill who froze wide-eyed in the middle of slinging a waterskin across her back.

“I once saw Sebastian hit a mark the size of a copper from over a hundred meters. In blinding rain!” Merrill said in her defense.

“How did this turn into a pissing contest?” Sebastian asked.

“Except we’re all pissing for each other,” Varric said. Merrill and Anders grimaced in disgust with the strange visual.

“I assume I don’t need to say this, but if you do encounter someone… or something, you should not engage,” Hawke said, veering them back on topic. “Walk quietly and carefully, but move quickly so we can cover the most ground possible. Don’t overdo your pace to start though or your triangle will be all… lopsided… and you might fall off a cliff or something.”

“No faith,” Varric grumbled.

“I’ve studied the map, Fenris I know you did too, so Varric you two should take it.” Hawke offered the rolled parchment to the dwarf, who took it grumpily and tucked it into his belt.

“It’ll be a long day,” Fenris added. “Take rations and plenty of water.”

They finished filling their packs mostly in silence. Fenris stopped Merrill just before she attempted to douse the fire with a pile of dried pine needles, and though he said nothing through his clenched jaw, the mage turned tail and stomped away as if scolded. Fenris smothered the flames with dirt, wise to not spend any of their dwindling water supply on the task.

After amusedly watching Varric stare at the map and spin in circles for a few moments, Anders pointed the dwarf’s shoulders in the correct direction, and the three groups headed out. Hawke exchanged a smile with Fenris, who turned and followed Merrill out of camp as she confidently stomped away along their intended route.

Hawke felt confident those two at least would make a good pairing for this task. Having spent most of her life amongst nomadic people, Merrill had an instinctual sense of direction and was knowledgeable in regards to vegetation, landscape, and wildlife. Though she seemed to be lacking in common sense and was sometimes just downright clumsy, Fenris was usually able to intercede before too much damage was done. Fenris had somehow gained an enormous amount of patience with the mage over the last week, even going so far as to help her learn to ride her horse properly, though this may have simply been because he was tired of leading her around as if she were blind and helpless.

As Hawke and Sebastian marched dutifully along their path, Hawke found her mind wandering back to the dream she'd had the previous night. The visions had shifted almost exclusively from things that felt like memories into things that felt like the future.

Though most of the specifics of this one had been lost to the hazy shroud that always came with consciousness, she could still recall the emotions it had elicited. Pain, betrayal, remorse.

_There can be no half measures_.

And then certainty that what she was going to do _had_ to be done, but that no one was going to like it.

They had been walking no longer than a quarter hour when rushed footsteps suddenly approached from behind. Hawke and Sebastian took cover behind the largest trees nearby, though most in these woods were tall, gangly pines. They waited for a few moments, listening to the steps slow and begin padding around, seemingly aimless.

“Hawke!” came Merrill’s hushed whisper. Sebastian raised an eyebrow at Hawke, and the two slowly peeked out from their cover.

“Maker, Merrill, what are you doing?” Hawke asked, climbing out and approaching the elf, her face flushed with exertion.

“We found it,” she said, out of breath.

“Well, isn’t that some providence,” Sebastian said pleasantly.

“Can you catch up with Varric and Anders, meet us back there?” Hawke asked.

Merrill nodded. “Straight the way we left camp, only a handful of minutes, Fenris is waiting.” She turned and ran off in the general direction Varric and Anders had gone, though Hawke knew the elf was completely sure of her trajectory.

Hawke and Sebastian quickly made their way back to camp, then out the way the elves had traveled, walking no more than five minutes before noticing Fenris squatting behind a rocky outcropping that led up a sharp hill to the south.

“Seriously?” Hawke whispered as she and Sebastian crouched in next to Fenris. “We were camping this close to them?”

“Yeah, it’s some serious providence,” Fenris said, peeking delicately over the rocks. Hawke rolled her eyes as Sebastian smiled and smacked Fenris’s arm with the back of his hand.

“That’s what I said!” Sebastian said, and the elf grinned in response.

“It’s about time we had some of that,” Hawke grumbled. She slowly peeked over the rocks to see what Fenris had been looking at.

There was a small cave mouth on the eastern face of the steep hill, not fifteen meters from where they hid. Though obscured with vegetation, it was clear from the trampled grass that led into the opening that the area had been well travelled of late.

“We saw five mages enter,” Fenris explained. “They wore the same dark red cloaks as the flocks in Kirkwall.”

“It’s nice of them to wear a uniform,” Hawke said quietly. She settled back down behind the rocks and looked in the direction she expected Merrill, Anders and Varric to appear from.

No one left or entered the cave in the half hour or so it took for the three to appear through the tree trunks, tucking in next to Hawke against the rocks. After a few minutes, giving Merrill some time to catch her breath, the group followed Hawke in toward the mouth of the cave, slowly and quietly.

They wound their way through extremely narrow passages with very low ceilings, having to crouch or crawl most of the way in. Unless there was another entrance, the Vehnan would have to bust out the side of the hill in order to escape after it ascended.

They finally found the entrance to the main cavern, the noises of the maleficarum and a low demonic rumble apparent before they got a visual.

Hawke signaled for the others to stay back, motioning for Merrill to step forward with her. They shuffled quietly along the floor until they came to the threshold, peering around it slowly.

Twenty meters into the cavern, six of the maroon-robed mages stood clumped together, deep in hushed discussion, far too quiet for Hawke to make anything out. The cavern sloped down and away steeply into a what must have been a deep pit. Recessed in the pit was the top of a rounded mass, still but pulsing, as if resting deeply.

“What now?” one of the mages said suddenly.

Hawke’s heart raced with the unexpected noise. She couldn’t hear more of the resulting conversation, but she saw as one of the maleficar pulled an amulet out of his robe and held it up for the others to see. Hawke exchanged a look with Merrill, who gave her a quick nod, then started to slowly shuffle backward toward the rest of the group.

“There’s six mages,” Hawke whispered, “and I can barely make out the Vehnan, but it’s definitely there.”

“They have an amulet they all seemed interested in,” Merrill added. “It could be the focus. They could be planning to ascend it now.”

“We better get going then.” Anders reached into his pack to prepare the lyrium they would need to use to enter the Fade. Hawke turned to look at Fenris.

“Focus on the mages first,” she said. “We’ll try to keep the Vehnan distracted, give you time to take them out.”

He nodded, taking her by the back of the neck to kiss her forehead, then signaled to the others to follow him to the entrance.

Hawke sat down across from Anders who gave her a simple but significant look as he reached out and took her hands in his. A blinding light, and it was done.

 

***

 

Hawke let her eyes adjust to the scene around her, different this time than when they’d last entered the Fade together.

She knew this place, though it was warped with the unmistakable haze and unease of the Fade. Instead of the rolling sand dunes of Anderfels as last time, now all around them was lush green grass, fields of wildflowers surrounded by trees, and the unmistakeable white stone of the Imperial Highway.

The village of Lothering stood looming over Anders’s shoulders. Justice’s shoulders. Her village, her home.

What had made Anders think of this, why was this place summoned? Or had she somehow influenced the locale herself?

She looked toward Justice, his eyes and skin cracking with blue energy. His face was as blank and unreadable as always as he looked around.

“Your home is beautiful,” Justice said.

Hawke turned to give him an incredulous look. The spirit had never said anything like that to her before.

“This was the right choice,” he said, standing up.

She looked at him questioningly as she climbed to her feet. “What was?”

“Coming here, doing this. I know you question if you’re doing the right thing, if risking their lives is worth it.” He turned at once and started toward the village’s center, staff in tow. “It is.”

Hawke was speechless as she trotted after him, releasing her greatsword from the sheath on her back.

What was going on? He was acting as if they were continuing a conversation that had been but briefly interrupted. This was not the way he had treated her when they’d last spoke. He’d been all business, all formality.

They reached the town square and carefully looked around, Hawke trying to focus on locating the demon and not the onslaught of memories that washed over her with every turn. They stayed within sight of one another but split up, checking behind buildings, in the Chantry, the fields around town, anywhere large enough for the demon to be slumbering. After a few minutes, they reconvened at the southern ramp that led to the Imperial Highway.

“Something isn’t right,” Justice warned.

“Could we be in the wrong place somehow?” Hawke asked, though she knew it didn’t work that way.

“I cannot sense it,” Justice said, seeming frustrated.

Hawke creased her brow, trying to reason out what they could have done wrong. Then, it hit her.

Justice seemed to have the same realization at the same time, as he scooped an arm around her and they were engulfed in a flash of blinding white light.


	18. Chapter 18

Fenris’s breath left him completely as he was thrown into the wall of the cavern. More accurately, he had been picked up and _tossed_ into the wall by the rampaging, furious Vehnan, as if he weighed nothing — as if he were a child’s doll.

The beast’s appearance was similar to the one they’d destroyed at Slaver’s Reach. It stood four meters in height with a thick body shaped by jagged crevices that looked like hardened molten rock. A field of sunken eyes blinked and darted looks in disconcerting unison as it bared a mouthful of jagged, sharp teeth. Vicious talons grew from the ends of its cudgel-like arms. Though it was powerful and enormous, its size and weight slowed it, allowing them an advantage so long as they could stay quick on their feet.

Though comparable in size and appearance, the demon acted nothing like the one from Slaver’s Reach. It hadn’t spoken a word to them, only roared and growled with thunderous defiance that resonated in Fenris’s chest. It had no strategy and used no spells, no magic. It did not seem duly affected by anything they did to it.

Though Fenris’s sword had proven detrimental, Merrill’s lighting, fire, ice, and anything else she could throw at it seemed to only infuriate it, and the projectiles, poisons and traps from Sebastian and Varric were mere annoyances.

Fenris slid down the wall into a crumpled heap, unable to rise while he attempted to catch his breath. The beast had moved on, swiping at Merrill with one enormous, clawed hand as the mage ducked and rolled away.

One good thing about the demon’s blind rage was that it didn’t seem keen to focus on eliminating any one person, but was content to simply throw them around while it rampaged.

Before the beast had woken from its slumber, they’d managed to take out four of the six maleficarum. At least, that’s what Fenris had thought. He watched on in horror as one of the remaining mages smashed a vial of red liquid onto the ground between two of his deceased comrades. A violent storm of flashing light erupted around them, and a sickly purple haze enveloped the two corpses. Moments later, a disturbing, gangly amalgamation of the two bodies rose from the dissipating fog.

So now they knew what this Vehnan’s potion could do. This was just so, so bad.

Fenris took a deep breath and cleared his head. One step at a time was all it would take, no need to get overwhelmed by each new, painful realization.

The maleficarum wouldn’t stop combining one another until they were all dead… twice… so he knew the best course of action would be to ignore the unfocused, rampaging beast and eliminate the mages first

That was easier said than done however, as its wild swings grew closer and closer to catching Merrill. Fenris managed to climb to his feet just as the reanimated double-mage found its staff and brandished it out toward her.

“Merrill!” Sebastian called out to warn her just as Fenris dashed forward in an attempt to intervene.

Merrill turned in time to raise her defenses, deflecting the stream of fire with a flow of air. The redirected flames engulfed the face of the Vehnan, and it roared in pain or anger or both.

Fenris was unsure if the deflection was intentional, but was pleased either way, both because it had actually seemed to hurt the demon and because it allowed him the opportunity for a vicious strike to the beast’s legs, severing them both part way through.

It fell to its knees — if they could be called knees — shaking the rocky cavern floor beneath it with the weight of the impact. The beast pawed at its face to stamp out the flames, leaving its flesh charred and if possible, even more grotesque.

Varric delivered a bolt to the temple of the reanimated mage, who fell lifelessly back to the ground. Fenris was pleased to note that it did not rise again.

Merrill turned back to deliver a blast of concentrated lighting to the Vehnan’s temple. It all but ignored the arcing bolts as it continued to recover from the burnt flesh that now covered most of its head. Merrill barred her teeth in frustration, ceasing the lightning and slamming her staff into the ground with both hands.

Fenris took a few steps back as the ground beneath him shook. The dirt and stone under the beast began to churn as if liquid, and its massive grotesque form sank down into it like it was quicksand.

He watched in awe as Merrill engulfed the demon entirely in the earth, the rumbling and shaking ceasing as the cave floor resumed its natural state. He exchanged a look with the mage, who seemed just as surprised — and pleased — by her own actions and he was.

“It’s ascended!” came Hawke’s panicked voice.

Fenris looked toward her as she and Anders dashed in, though they were difficult to see clearly up the steep incline that led toward the mouth of the cave.

The other maleficarum turned toward the unexpected visitors, firing off bolts of fire and ice, then smashing another vial to the ground near the other pair of fallen mages.

 _Ascended?_ That meant immortal. Fenris caught Merrill’s eye as they both turned back to look at each other, then continued their look slowly back down to the location the Vehnan had disappeared.

Fenris couldn’t catch much of what happened then. He was instantly assaulted with a wall of flying debris as the demon exploded back out of the ground. He was half buried in the resulting refuse, but moments later a pair of hands began to push away the stone, sand, and dirt to help him climb out.

It was Merrill — showered in dirt — but unharmed. She must have used magic to shield herself from the brunt of the pileup.

She helped him stand, and he took a quick look around to gauge the situation. Hawke and Anders seemed to have the mages well in hand, though Hawke looked more than disturbed by the newly reanimated one that had emerged from the use of the potion. The Vehnan was still crouched in the position he’d landed in, but was beginning to stand, dirt and rock flowing off him like an avalanche off an enraged, rolling mountain

“Sebastian! Varric!” Fenris called out to the archers, then signaled for the two to split up. They seemed to understand what he was after, as Sebastian slid agilely down the steep incline he had been perched on to cross the cave and skirt past the other side of the demon. He fired a flaming arrow into one of its many eyes as he passed, causing the beast to turn and rage after him.

Fenris led Merrill up the incline and out of the pit, toward where Hawke and Anders fought. Fenris approached one mage from behind and sliced him through before he had a chance to realize what had happened. He turned to watch Sebastian and Varric begin a surprisingly affective ploy of distraction, firing back and forth steadily as the demon turned between them, unable to decide who to smash into a pulp first.

Fenris looked back just in time to see Anders block a fiery attack from the remaining maleficar, then Merrill delivered a brutal burst of ice to his chest just as Hawke spun forward, felling the mage with one swing of her greatsword.

The four turned to the last reanimated mage, its grotesque form a disturbing blend of the bodies that had been combined to create it. Hawke glared at it with a look that was at once defiant, offended, and culpable.

Fenris should have realized before. It was so obvious now as he watched it attempt to raise its staff with stiffened joints, the pallid, absent look in its eye. These reanimated mages were striking reminders of the creature Hawke’s mother had been made into by the deranged mage who had kidnapped her.

Anders was looking at Hawke concernedly as well, his gaze turning quickly from sympathy to scorn. He faced the mage, a blaze of fire streaming from the end of his staff. The abomination met it head on, deflecting the fire away and into the cave wall behind him.

Hawke swung her sword in a wide arc and it retreated a few paces just as Merrill sent a blast of wind, pushing it off its feet and onto the ground. It was now laying on the ground directly between all its fallen comrades, the two mages to one side and the other reanimated creature to the other.

Before they could process what was happening, the creature had pulled another vial out of its cloak and smashed it onto its own chest. A surprisingly forceful blast of dark purple fog exploded out from it, engulfing itself and the other bodies in the storm.

Fenris dashed away as it rolled toward him, not wanting to know what could happen if he was caught in its wake. He stopped next to Merrill, who stood with her staff brandished as she watched the storm concernedly. Anders and Hawke watched on from the opposite side, as unsure as they were of what would appear as the fog settled.

For once, it actually wasn’t as bad as what Fenris’s imagination had conjured. Sure, it had an extra set of arms and what appeared to be half a face protruding from its chest, but it was no larger, and seemed no more powerful or enraged, than any one of them had been while alive.

Unfortunately, it seemed to possess the ability to use all of its hosts’ powers simultaneously. It thrust its four hands out, each firing a different stream of magical destruction out toward them.

Fenris reacted instinctually, grabbing Merrill and pulling her to the ground as lighting shot just over their heads. The hairs on his neck stood up and his skin crackled as the charged air barely missed them. He looked to Hawke — Anders had been able to raise a flow of air to deflect it away, which seemed to anger the creature, and it turned its full attention toward them.

Fenris and Merrill scrambled to their feet and rushed up behind it. Fenris growled as they approached. A face on the back of its head too? Really?

Merrill looked equally disgusted, but took no pause as she turned and fired a stream of air out toward it, bombarding it with a whirlwind of flying rock, sand, and dirt from the cave floor. Fenris stepped toward it just as Hawke did the same, each swinging their heavy swords toward its midsection. From either luck, or the creatures inability to comprehend looking in two directions at once, both their weapons struck home, slicing the creature into three gruesome parts.

A grim but surprised Hawke was revealed as its limp, trisected body fell to pieces in front of them. She stared at the creature for a few moments, then looked up to give Fenris a wide-eyed look, sweat beading on her forehead.

“Maker’s balls!” came Varric’s cry, and Fenris turned toward the pit where the archers were keeping the Vehnan busy.

The dwarf was running away from the beast as it swiped its talons at him, close enough to shred the tails of his coat. Sebastian fired off a furious volley of arrows straight to the back of the creature's head. After five or six, it gave up on Varric and turned to roar at Sebastian defiantly.

“We can’t kill this thing,” Anders panted, sweat beading on his forehead. “What are we going to do?”

Hawke looked on toward the creature, brow creased deeply.

“Run away?” Merrill piped anxiously.

Hawke looked at Fenris, but he could only shake his head.

“I guess we don’t have a choice,” Hawke said despondently. “Maybe it will have a hard time escaping through the cave walls. The passages in here are too narrow for it. Maybe we can get to the Belhim’irsa before this one ransacks Ostwick.”

“You…” came a sudden, booming growl.

The four turned and looked toward the Vehnan in shock as it glared menacingly — directly at Hawke.

So, it could speak after all.


	19. Chapter 19

It was squared up and glaring directly at Hawke, ignoring the arrow and bolt that almost simultaneously struck into either side of its massive head. Fenris reached out toward her as Hawke stepped in front of Anders, Merrill, and himself, toward the edge of the steep decline. Despite the beast’s height it still had to look up at her slightly from its recessed position in the pit.

“I remember you,” it said. “I can feel you. I can taste you.”

Anders wiped a hand down his face and muttered, “Yeah that’s not creepy at all.”

Hawke’s expression was stone, but Fenris could sense the anxiety beneath her determined glare.

The demon roared, layered, resonating and evil. “How convoluted this has all become.” It leaned in toward her.

The others, Fenris included, raised their weapons and stepped toward the beast, but Hawke stood her ground unflinchingly.

It almost seemed to smile as it continued. “You don’t even realize how shackled you are to all of this, how tightly woven you’ve become.”

“I know your blood runs through me,” Hawke said.

The demon laughed, leaning menacingly toward Hawke. “Not just _my_ blood. All their blood — and _his_ blood. The first and the last of his line. A pity, there’s serious power there. Shame I’ll have to kill you before you’ll have a chance to continue it, but thank you for sharing it with us first. I wasn’t sure I would be able to accomplish what they wanted… but now that I have your power… let’s just say I’m no longer worried.”

Though Hawke’s stern gaze didn’t waver, Fenris could see her jaw tighten as the demon taunted her. What was he talking about? Her father?

“I see what you’re doing. Trying to replace him… with _this_ one.” The demon’s grin widened, but Fenris was unsure of who the beast was referring to. “They’re of one mold but… not the same. It would have been so wonderfully _tragic_. You should really thank me for ending it before you have to endure all that pain. I’d do that for you though, we are kin, now, after all.”

“My blood will be mine alone once we’ve killed you all,” Hawke said plainly.

“As if it will be that simple.” The beast laughed, then its face fell to deadly seriousness. “I think not. However, you are your very own kind of abomination. You’ll be fun to destroy. Your power will be delicious.”

“Sounds like a date.” Hawke flashed a grin.

Fenris was surprised she was able to find any humor in this decidedly horrifying situation.

Then she added amicably, “Why don’t you tell me where you are, and we can continue this chat in person.”

Fenris was briefly confused — then he remembered: if this Vehnan was ascended, then it was now being controlled by the Belhim’irsa. She was talking to the big bad itself.

“I’m not quite ready, but don’t worry,” it said, flashing its field of teeth in a grotesque smile. “I’ll be accepting visitors soon.”

“You’ll be needing _this_ for that, correct?” Hawke held out her fist. A cord was wrapped tightly around her hand, and as she loosened her grip, the jewel of an amulet fell out. It dangled from her grip, glinting in the flickering firelight.

It was large for a piece of jewelry, about the size of a small plum. It was set in a casing of woven and carved gold, the ruby red facets shaping the gem into a precise circle. The beast was silent and still for a few long moments as it and Hawke stared at one another, both unwavering.

It happened very quickly after that. The beast swept out toward her with one brutally taloned claw, and Hawke somehow brandished her sword and leapt off the ledge, stabbing her sword into its chest until only the hilt remained.

Fenris had been unable to do anything but gape during the entire incident, though it’d only taken a handful of seconds. Had Anders fueled her jump? He must have. How had they communicated that?

The beast roared and stumbled backward as Hawke somewhat awkwardly clung to the hilt of her sword, causing the blade to slice down through the beast’s body. Its bellow ceased as its limp body hit the ground. Hawke landed atop its stomach, crouching, but somehow upright. As she stood she pulled the blade free from the beast with a concerted effort.

They all seemed to hold their breath in unison, waiting for the epic collapse that killing the Vehnan at Slaver’s Reach had caused. After a few long moments of silence, they breathed a collective sigh of relief and began to exchange anxious looks. Fenris could only assume that it had been the creature’s presence in both the Fade and the world that had caused the instability that had collapsed the cave. That could be seen as a positive for ascension, at least.

Hawke, still atop the Vehnan’s chest, turned to look at her companions in disbelief.

“What?” Varric scoffed, stepping forward. “Heart-stabbing works? That’s not really _indestructibility_ at its finest.”

“I did not think that was going to work,” Hawke admitted, her eyes wide.

“What exactly was your plan, then?” Fenris asked, incredulous.

“To infuriate it enough so you guys could get away?” she squeaked.

“Fasta vass…” Fenris cursed, running a stiff hand through his hair.

“Why _would_ it work?” Hawke turned to Merrill. “Indestructible, right?”

“Yes,” the elf said, wide-eyed. “I’m positive that translation was correct — I went over it a dozen times to be sure.”

“How do we explain this, then?” Hawke asked. “Had he not actually ascended?”

“I couldn’t hurt it, my magic did nothing,” Merrill said, then turned to Fenris as if looking for answers. “You saw it too — when I deflected that maleficar’s fire spell into the Vehnan.”

Fenris nodded slowly. She was right, nothing had seemed to hurt it save that fire deflection and Hawke’s fatal blow.

“You share its blood,” Merrill continued, looking back at Hawke. “So you can kill it.”

“You probably didn’t need to taunt it first,” Varric said dryly, not seeming as affected as the others by the revelation.

Fenris caught a glimpse of the amulet still tucked tightly into Hawke’s palm. She opened her fist and looked down at the jewel.

“I wanted to make sure this was really the focus…” she mumbled, almost to herself.

“That’s one way to get an answer, I suppose,” Sebastian sighed.

“Well, since they’ve clearly started the process,” Anders said, “I guess it’s good we found a way to kill ascended Vehnans.” He sighed, then clarified, “Well… that _you_ can.”

Hawke hopped down off the beast and they followed behind her as she climbed back up the incline toward the entrance to the cavern. She lead them toward an open area beyond the entrance where a stand of cots, blankets, supplies and barrels stood. She stopped a few meters from the wall, and that’s when Fenris noticed it. He supposed he had already seen them, they were there, clear as day, but his subconscious had let him ignore it so he could focus on the task.

There were dozens and dozens of bodies, bled dry and stacked against the walls. Just like at Slaver’s Reach. The stench was such that it couldn’t have been more than a day since they were killed, likely as fuel for the demon’s ascension.

“In case anyone needed a reminder of why we’re doing this,” Hawke said as she turned around to face them all.

Fenris knew she was right. They’d been so focused on the how, they’d all but forgotten the why. So many innocents were being kidnapped and killed to feed these evil creatures. It had to be stopped.

His stomach lurched with guilt at how many had likely died while they researched and plotted. He knew it wasn’t their fault — they needed that time. They wouldn’t have even known where to start if Merrill hadn’t translated the book and found out how to filter the blood. But this knowledge didn’t placate the knot that had grown in his stomach.

His companions looked equally disturbed as they looked on toward Hawke, or past her at the bodies and barrels that once held so much blood.

“I know it’s unpleasant,” Hawke continued in a low voice, “But we need to do a thorough search. Look for anything that might help us locate the location of the Belhim’irsa. Make sure to find any residual potions — we need to make sure they are destroyed.”

They said nothing but showed their agreement by slowly beginning to scatter out into the area, save Sebastian. The prince instead stepped slowly toward the stack of bodies, got to his knees, and to begin to pray.

Fenris chose a row of cots to inspect, checking carefully under the blankets and bedrolls. He quickly found his mind wandering back to what the demon had said to Hawke.

Fenris understood the quality of demons well enough to know that their intent was always to unsettle, to disturb, to infuriate — anything to keep you off balance so you might overreact or do something foolish. And they could sense things about your past, find your darkest fears, things you didn’t even know existed yourself sometimes. So what they said was more than often true, or at least based in truth, however warped to suit their aim.

The demon had seemed to be talking about Hawke’s father, Malcolm. It could sense that his blood ran within her, that she was the last of the Hawke line. And though disturbing and strange, it wasn’t this that concerned Fenris, but rather what the beast had said about Hawke trying to _replace_ her father.

Fenris had never known Malcolm himself, though years ago they had encountered a ghost-like embodiment of his spirit at a Grey Warden prison in the Vimmark Mountains. He had seemed stern and serious, but passionate about protecting his family. From the stories Hawke had told, though they were few, the man had been loving and humorous, always looking to protect and help others — at any expense. A trait he’d clearly passed on to his children.

Though he didn’t think any single one of them exemplified Malcolm with any particular specificity… he knew which one came the closest. He couldn’t explain why it bothered him, why it mattered. He couldn’t resent Anders for being what he was — for being a mage, for caring about the welfare of others, or even for loving Hawke.

It still concerned him though, because it validated his intuition that there was something between Hawke and Anders. Even the demon at Slaver’s Reach had said she loved them both. Fade beasts could see it, Fenris could see it, and the others likely could as well, even Anders.

All except Hawke. But he didn’t think she was lying — to him or to herself. Something was stopping her from seeing it, but he didn’t know what.

“I wish we could give them all a proper burial, Seb,” came Hawke’s soft voice, filled with remorse. “I’m sorry.” She was standing next to the prince, who remained on his knees but was no longer praying.

“I know,” he replied, his voice gravely. “I’ve asked the Maker to usher them on safely.”

She put a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze before turning back to continue searching.

They found no notes, letters, books, or hints of any kind as to the location of the Belhim’irsa, or any of the other groups of maleficarum. Between them they found more than a dozen vials, however, which they collected in the center of the area, then stood around silently, unsure of what to do.

“Dump them in the ocean?” Anders suggested.

“That could be dangerous,” Merrill said, “depending on the types of life forms it may work on.”

Varric made a disgusted face, likely due to the mental image the thought created of the amalgamation of sea life that might rise from the depths should the potions be disposed of that way.

“Into the mud?” Anders went on. “We’re not afraid of a few mutant worms, right?”

“That assumes its effectiveness diminishes upon contact,” Merrill said. “Otherwise, any manor of creature could walk through it, drink it, spread it.”

“You’re being kind of a naysayer, here, Merrill,” Anders grumbled.

“Do you have any suggestions Daisy?” Varric asked.

“Hide it?” Merrill said.

“No,” Fenris replied flatly.

“Maker’s breath,” Sebastian sighed.

“Ah, absolutely _not_ ,” Hawke chimed in.

“Ok, relax,” Merrill conceded, then added. “When in doubt… fire?”

The others exchanged glances then nodded consent.

“I can do it,” she said to Anders, “but I think you guys should wait outside… just in case…” She stared at the pile of potions, worry creasing her pale brow.

“Gladly,” Varric agreed. “The thought of us all combining into one super-creature is… vastly unpleasant.”

“We’ve all been close enough for comfort of late,” Hawke agreed as they started toward the exit.

She locked arms casually with Fenris as if they were taking a stroll through Hightown. He gave her a questioning look, which she returned with a mischievous smile. How she was able to turn things from business to pleasure so simply, he did not know. But he couldn’t help but return her infectious grin.

“Fendric Sebrillawke?” Anders said with a smile.

He gained only sidelong glances from the others at his awkward attempt at combining all of their names.

“Venders Merhawstian?” he tried again.

Hawke groaned.

“Marrian Hawfenders!” he said excitedly.

“Hah,” Varric barked a laugh, “Hawfenders, that’s good. I’m going to call the three of you that from now on.”

“No, you can’t use my amazing creativity for evil,” Anders insisted.

“There was no disclaimer,” Varric said.

“You can assume it’s in effect at all times.”

“You can’t have a universally-effective disclaimer,” Varric replied, as if it was uncontested fact.

“You really want me to add a disclaimer every time I open my mouth?”

“No… please…” Fenris sighed, but was largely ignored.

“I don’t make the rules, Blondie.” Varric shrugged as he passed by the disheartened mage, smiling an all-too-pleased grin.


End file.
